#i want the us to win so fucking back but maybe i want marta to win more.

[rolandkaros]

can't believe there are people on here who don't know abt marta.........can't believe there are people on here who don't CARE abt marta 😭

[cascader]

Can I ask for 15, I've been watching you all night and I can't take it anymore?

(Also if u see me just follow you I accidentally hit the unfollow button LOL)

hi Kat!!! here ya go, officially two months later!!! this is a continuation to this drabble but in James's POV! hope you enjoy <3

(rated T)

“You’re not listening to me,” sighs Remus. 

“No,” affirms James. “I’m not.”

He could watch her and listen to Remus simultaneously, he knows. He doesn’t want to.

Remus rolls his eyes and turns to follow James’s line of sight, but she’s momentarily obscured by a cluster of recently-growth-spurted fourth years. “Who are you even staring at… Marta?”

James bites down a laugh. “No, mate. Not Marta.”

Remus sighs again, this time louder, and claps James on the shoulder before saying something he doesn’t quite catch and disappearing to… somewhere. He doesn’t know.

Lily doesn’t wear dresses often. He’s used to seeing her legs, but in skirts — her bloody legs in those bloody skirts. He can’t say if he’s grateful for those skirts or hates them. (He’s grateful.) So that’s not it, whatever’s stirred in him at the sight of her dress. 

It’s the lines, he reasons, as she turns to the side in a leisurely walk to the boys’ staircase. He follows the curve of her neck down to her chest, to her waist, to—

She catches his eye again. Seems to know. Winks. 

She’s up the stairs, and he puts his drink down somewhere and says bye — or says something, at least, maybe, who knows, to someone, or maybe he doesn’t. He doesn’t fucking care. 

James takes the stairs two at a time, the music fading behind him. He usually relishes their dormitory being seven stories up from the already-seven-stories-up Gryffindor Tower, but today he curses it. 

Something in his chest tightens and burns when he catches sight of her, half a dozen steps ahead of him. She pauses, hearing him, and slows, her hand reaching out for the railing. Her fingers skim it. 

He catches up to her on the landing outside the sixth-year dorm. 

“Lily,” he gets out, a little out of breath, on an exhale. He didn’t even need to call for her — she’s already turning around, and she’s got that look in her eyes, the one that just kills him, and she reaches for him as he closes the gap toward her. 

“Hi,” she whispers, now smiling a little, as he skims his hands up her arms and shoulders to cup her jaw. He steps forward until her back’s against the stairwell. He thumbs at her lip. Her head tilts back at his touch, exposing her neck to him. 

“I missed you,” she says, eyes closed, head tilting to the side. 

James ghosts his lips up her neck, across her jaw, loving the little puff of air she lets out. 

“I missed you too,” he says, dropping his forehead against hers. 

She winds her arms around his shoulder in the way he loves, squirming herself closer. 

“The terms of their bet… who would win if we just told everyone now?” she asks. 

“Padfoot."

“And he’d be…”

“Insufferable.”

A sigh. “Yeah.”

When James opens his eyes, all he can see is impossible green, shining at him with something indecipherable that scares him a little and thrills him a lot. 

He presses his lips to hers, slowly, surely. She lets out another little puff of air and slants her lips back against his immediately. He knows she’s risen to her toes by the way she presses up into him. 

He feels the familiar electricity crackle up his spine. He ghosts one of his hands down her side to wrap tightly around her waist. Her hands move into his hair, tug it gently. He groans. 

James feels her mouth open and her tongue against his and he breaks away abruptly, panting. 

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, okay, fuck. Not here.”

Lily follows him as he pulls away, catching him on the corner of his mouth, his cheek. “Yeah,” she says mindlessly, now kissing his neck. “Not here.”

James groans again, feeling heat… everywhere. 

He slants his mouth back over hers, pressing her back into the wall. Her hands are everywhere, tracing his biceps, down his torso, tugging up his shirt.

“Okay, fuck,” James says between furious kisses. He palms her arse, hip, thigh, and then hitches her leg over his hip. “Come on, babe. Up.”

She acquiesces, jumping up a little to wrap her legs around his hips. James stumbles for a moment and pulls her tighter to him, bracing them both against the wall. He breaks their snog to kiss her cheeks, one after the other.

Lily giggles. “Can you even get up the stairs like this?” 

James leans in for another deep kiss, then breaks away. Forehead against forehead. “Pretty sure I could do anything right now.” 

[roxannex90]

Enemies to Lovers (Nahikari Garcia X Reader)

“Ah fuck!” You said after falling on the ground. Coach blows the whistle. You look over your shoulder to see Nahikari Garcia fouled you. “I didn’t even touch her!” She says to the coach during practice. “She's being dramatic!” While checking your leg you can see a bruise forming. “Damn that looks bad. Maybe you should come kiss it to make it feel better Nahi…” Says Marta Cardona teasing Nahikari. She rolls her eyes at Marta. The last practice of the year continues on for a few more minutes until it ends. Everyone hits the showers to wash off. After the shower you’re getting dressed when Nahikari walks up to you. “Sorry about earlier even though you got in the way” she says standing in front of you.

“Yeah well you hit me pretty hard. So watch how you play next time.” She puffs at your response “I apologize and you say that?” With her arms now crossed. “Your apology sucked so yeah.” Grabbing your things and leaving. A week later after off-season started you left Madrid for Dubai with a couple of your close friends outside of football. “This is nice.” you say to your friend who you’re sharing a room with at a hotel. Your friends wanted to go shopping but you didn’t so instead of going with them you go to the beach by yourself. At the beach you find some Spaniards to hang with and drink a Piña colada. Two of the girls decided to do some activities further down on the beach where there’s a competition hosted by one of the hotels. They asked you to join them and you go. When y’all get there you see a bunch of people ready to participate in tug of war. “Teams of four! If you don’t have four we’ll add people to your group!” Says one of the hosts of this game. You're in line with the two girls when it’s your group's turn to go against another group. “Whoa! Hold on. Let me get one more person for this group.” The host said while looking around. She finds someone and puts them in your group. You see, it's Nahikari. “What are you doing here?” Confused and annoyed. “What are you doing here?” Nahikari said with an annoyed tone. “Whatever. Let’s just win this.” Putting the rope into your hands. “Three! Two! One!” The game starts. Pulling the rope your team is struggling. Nahikari yells from behind you to pull harder. Finally getting enough strength you pull the rope as hard as you can. The other team is now struggling to win. They give up and release the rope when you fall onto Nahikari. She laughs then kissed the back of your head. “We won!” You get up and she high fives you. “Fuck yeah!” Looking at her. The two girls you were with tell you they’re going to leave. “Hasta la luego!” You turn back to Nahikari. “I could really go for a drink.” She says. “I know a place that has some good drinks.” You suggest. She agrees to go and follows you. “Two daiquiris please. Extra shot.” You tell the bartender. “Extra shot?” She laughs. “Yes, I think we need it since we haven’t been seeing eye to eye this past season.” With a wink. “Well you’re not wrong…” she takes a sip of her drink. An hour passed by and the two of you are now tipsy. “You know Marta loves to joke about us.” Nahikari brings up what happened at practice. “Well a part of me was hoping you would have kissed my thigh to make it feel better!” Joking about it. “Ah, I need to leave my friends wanna go out to eat.” You tell Nahikari while checking your messages. “Where are you staying?” She gets up from her chair. You tell her the hotel name. “I’m staying there too. Let me walk with you.” Leaving the bar. The both of you arrive at the hotel elevator. “What floor?” You ask her. “Ocho” she smiled. You press eight and then your floor eleven. As the elevator goes up she realized she doesn’t have her hotel room card on her. “Joder.” She Mutters. “Lost your card?” You laugh. “Haha, not funny.” She looks at you smiling. “Can I use your hotel phone to call downstairs?” She asked. The elevator door opens to the eighth floor. “Sure” you pressed the button to close the doors. The elevator goes up to the eleventh floor and opened its doors. “Vamos” you leave the elevator. She follows you to your room. The card is scanned, the room door opens. Nahikari goes to the phone and dials the hotel downstairs. You heard her talking to the front desk worker while you took off your shorts. You head to the shower in the bathroom and turn on the water. “Ok thank you very much” Nahikari hangs up the phone. You open the bathroom door in your bikini “everything good?” You ask her. “Yeah…” she checks you out. “What?” laughs nervously. “You still want me to kiss that thigh of yours?” As she looks, biting her lip. “If you really want to, then come do it but I need to shower.” Thinking she was joking about it. She walks into the bathroom as you enter the shower still thinking it was a joke. “I’m not joking” she looks you in the eyes. Realizing she’s serious you now are checking her out. You were turned on by how she looked. “Then what are you waiting for?” She takes her bikini off and enters the shower immediately kissing you. The shower doesn’t work so you lead her to the couch in the room. She sits you down and eats you out. Then uses her fingers with one hand and the other to choke you. After you’re finished it’s your turn. You open her legs and rub her clit till she cums. You kiss for a bit then get ready to leave. “I’ll walk you to the elevator” you say to her. Once in the elevator she pressed her floor. The two of you are feeling great. You give her a kiss before the doors open “see you at practice” you say when the doors open, she walks out to wink at you. 

[until-we-fall-in-love]

la volpe

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader, slight Marta Cabrera x Reader

Summary: You and Ransom have a complicated relationship.

Warnings: Smut, slightly dub-con because Ransom is an asshole, slightly unhealthy relationship, mild bdsm, rough sex.

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: hello everyone!! no one asked for this and yet here it is!! i hate ransom!! but alas, now i have this smutty fic of him so lmao enjoy?? also i’m physically incapable of writing ana de armas and not making it somehow romantic im so sorry i just have too big of a crush on her and marta

let me know what you thought of this!!!

***

The musical clinking of glasses and cutlery is soft against the piano twinkling in the background. The lights are low and glowing, candles and sparkling, dim-lit chandeliers overhead. The restaurant is dark and lavish, velvet and smelling rich and spiced and enticing. Wine is placed before you, plum and bitter berry tasting. It’s fine and expensive and you swirl it delicately in your sparkling glass. 

Your eyes flicker up to the man across from you, seated casually, leaning back in his chair with broad shoulders covered in a black, finely knit sweater. It’s expensive, you can tell simply by looking at it. Designer, you’re sure. You know his shoes have blood red bottoms. He drips wealth still, smug as ever, handsome as ever. 

“You look good.” He says with a smile curling at his lips. 

You take a sip of wine. Your back is straight, the black, cashmere turtle-neck clinging to your figure. The delicate, ruby earrings glint under the low light, your hair pulled back elegantly. 

Of course you look good.

“What do you want, Ransom?” You ask, setting the glass down carefully. You study him with cutting eyes, skeptical, but composed. 

“Can’t I take my girl out to a nice dinner?” He asks, his eyes glimmering. 

“Haven’t been your girl in months.” You counter, drum your crimson colored nails against your glass. You grow impatient, sigh lightly and glance away from him.  

“C’mon, don’t be like that, princess.” He croons all low and soft, leaning forward onto the table. You like when his eyes flash like that, sincere for you. Just on the right side of desperate. He deserves it, since it’s been months since you’d last heard from him. 

You’re actually certain he has a new girl on his arm now. 

And you want to make him squirm a little. 

You roll your eyes at him, at the way he tries to butter up to you with the nice dinner and a few compliments. You know he wants something. He always wants something and the gleam in his eyes is too sharp and pretty. Greedy, greedy man that would gorge himself on you, on this life, if you’d let him. 

You bite your lip, watch as his eyes track the movement like a predator. 

He at least needs to work for it.

“I could be doing a thousand other things right now, Ransom. Why am I out to dinner with you?” You ask instead, your lashes fluttering prettily as your eyes land on him once more. Your features are aloof and cold and haughty. It makes his blood boil, you can see it in the curl of his lips. 

He huffs lightly, “Oh, yeah, busy Harvard graduate student, isn’t that right?” His voice is just shy of a sneer when he asks, “How’s the dissertation going, kitten?” 

“Well, thank you.” 

You look down your nose at him as his own eyes settle into a glare. The blue of his eyes burns and smolders, bright and sparking on you. Your gazes are as sharp as knives, gleaming and ready to gut each other. 

You wait until he relents, takes this loss to hopefully get a win. He lowers his eyes with another breath, concedes. 

He’ll give you another compliment, maybe reach across the table to touch you. Then he’ll ask you for what he needs. 

“I am glad to hear that.” He says smoothly, “I know how much it means to you. I’m sure it’s incredible.” And he offers you an earnest look, the one you’re sure he’s used to get into plenty of girl’s panties. 

And like clockwork, he reaches over to brush his fingers against yours, which are gently resting on the stem of your wine glass. 

He gives you a smile like that’s supposed to work.

You roll your eyes, pull your hand from his.

You watch the heat and anger rush over his features and wonder if he’s going to make a scene. Now that would be fun. You wonder if you’ll get to toss your wine all over that expensive sweater, storm out only for him to follow hot on your trails. And he’ll drag you to the car and you’ll scream at each other until you’re kissing and your nails are biting into his skin and he’s trying to teach you a lesson in manners—

If your cheeks flush, he doesn’t notice, because he snaps, “Are you always such a brat?” 

You smile for the first time that evening. 

“No, you just bring out the worst in me.” You quip back before taking another slow, savored sip of wine.

He scoffs, “I could say the same of you.” 

“Then why am I here?” 

Now he does soften a little, “I want you to come home with me for my grandfather’s birthday party.” 

Your brows furrow and you settle back into your chair, skeptical. “Don’t you have a girlfriend right now? Why not just bring her?” You ask, even though you already know the answer to your own question.

“You know you’re the only one I bring home to my psychotic family.” He says and now he captures your hand with his, brushes his thumb over your knuckles, leans close and in your space. His cologne is familiar and washes over you, spiced and warm and musky. Expensive.

“You’re psychotic, too.” You respond, but allow your fingers to slip into his. His hand is warm against yours and it slides against your palm, open and large. His fingers brush over the pulse in your wrist, move along the sensitive skin there. 

“That’s why you fit in there, princess.” He says and gives you a shark’s smile, so hooked and gutting. He lowers his voice for you, “And,” His eyes roll up to catch yours, “I’ve missed you.” 

The hint of vulnerability in his face makes you hum lightly, amused or pleased or warmed by it. You’ve missed him, too, in truth. Nobody is like Ransom.

There’s something about him and you that always keeps you two returning to one another. He’s inevitable, you think. You’ve never known anyone to get under your skin in such a way, to burrow their way into you and refuse to leave. 

He’s a disease. 

One you can’t cure yourself from. He’s ruined you for anyone else. 

But you think you’ve ruined him, too. 

It’s been months since your last fling with him. Years since you officially dated but you’re both always circling back to one another. He doesn’t bring any other girls home besides you. He was only ever serious about you. You’re both fated in some way, your stars entwined, looped and crashing into one another again and again. A dance that never ends, that you never want to end.

“Yeah?” You ask, soft and breathy, leaning towards him now, too. “Whad’ya miss about me, Ransom?” 

His eyes flicker lower, over your form and they roam slow and savoring. He licks his lips fleetingly. “Well,” He begins, “I miss fucking you.” 

The vulgarity shouldn’t shock you, it shouldn’t make you flush, but it does. You blame the little wine you’ve had. You pull from his touch once more, continue your game of cat and mouse and try to keep your thoughts from sliding into memories of him on top of you. At your neck with teeth. Parting your legs.

“Pig.” You scoff, shaking your head and pulling your hand from his. “You have a girlfriend.” 

“Yeah, but she’s not you.” He muses, “No one’s you.” He adds, tilting his head slightly. “So c’mon. Come home with me, baby.” He then almost purrs and smiles again, slow and charming this time. He means it now and it’s the kind of smile that gets him out of trouble if he ever tried to wear it. It could be boyish, if it wasn’t so hungry. 

You pick up your wine glass once more, glare over the rim before taking another sip. A bigger one this time, let it burn down your throat and warm your chest. You think your heart is beating faster than it should as he looks at you as if he wants to lay you out on this very table. 

“Get me a diamond bracelet and I will.” You tell him, your bottom lip sticking out a little as you gaze back at him. 

His eyes spark, dance with the flame of the candle. He looks a little crazed now, like he’s lost a few screws and hasn’t bothered to find them again. He looks a little wild-eyed and it’s enticing, the uncertainty in him. The promise of pain and pleasure and the fast pace life of the wealthy. All beautiful and dirty and filthy fucking rich.

He takes your hand and kisses it, slides his lips to your palm. To your wrist where your pulse flutters underneath his mouth, beneath the touch of his tongue. The threat of teeth. He murmurs then, his voice smooth and low and so lovely it makes you shiver;

“Anything for you, princess.” 

***

The Cartier white-gold, diamond bracelet catches in the sun proudly and flashes brilliant light as your hand slides into Ransom’s while he helps you out of his car. You step out onto the gravel driveway and smooth out the tight, leather black skirt hugging your hips and thighs. You inch it down as you ready to see the Thrombey’s once more after nearly a year. You adjust your cream, turtleneck sweater, too. The knitting chunky and loose, oversized on you but chic and soft to the touch.

You have to be sure the wine dark bruise on your neck is covered, the red marked rings around your wrist are drowned in the sleeves of your sweater. Can’t have his family realizing his tastes in bondage, not that you think he would care, but you certainly do. 

In fact, the mere memory of it makes you flush with heat in the crisp autumn air. 

You’d barely gotten into Ransom’s apartment in the city before he’d shoved you hard against the door. A picture rattles, swings precariously. He kisses you with a brutalness you haven’t felt in months, the quick cut of his teeth at your bottom lip. His hands on your body, hungry, greedy hands that want to take and take and take. 

You’d shoved him back, tried to get him off you as you glared up at him with fever dark eyes. Your chest was already heaving, rising and falling in quick bursts, your face flushed with color. 

You’d already look frazzled, hair slipping from the updo it’d been in. His little hell cat, little brat that’s gotta try and fight him on everything. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” You’d gasped, your lips already raw and spit-slick and he’d wanted to absolutely fucking ruin you--

He had smirked lazily, as if the whole world was his to take. But there was a restless bite to him, a deep seated and painful desire. A desperate hunger that was raw and open on his face as he looked at you like you were his for the taking.  

 “C’mon, baby,” He purrs, nearing you again, despite your palm going to his chest. As if that’d keep him back for long. You could tell by the look in his eyes, the dark, sharp gleam that he was going to get what he wanted. “I just wanna show you how bad I missed you.” 

And you could feel how bad he’d missed you, the hard line of him now pressing back into your hip as he crowds you again. Your back hits the wall again, his hands already dragging under your clothes to find sensitive, bare skin.

He groans slightly, maybe at how soft you are, maybe because he does just fucking miss you. 

But you’re not done protesting, even if your stomach is twisting in excitement. Even if there’s heat building on the inside of you, making you grip at his broad shoulders slightly. 

“Get off me, Ransom.” You try to snap, but your voice is getting all high and breathy like he loves. You squirm, try to push him off once more. 

He laughs slightly as you manage to wriggle out from beneath him. You dart for the bedroom and if you’d truly not wanted him, you would’ve slammed the door in his face. But you leave it, let him follow after you. 

He shuts the door behind him, then. Strolls in leisurely. 

“You think after months of not speaking, you just get to take what you want?” You ask in the haughty little way that makes his blood sing. It’s more to taunt him, more to test is control. 

You could tell he didn’t have much left. 

“Yes,” He drawls, arrogant, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. “Now, why don’t you be a good girl and get on the bed for me?” 

You inhale sharp and quietly, your wide eyes staring at him as he wanders closer. The bedroom, though large and luxurious, now feels too small. Like there’s no more oxygen and a single spark would send it up in flames. 

“Make me.” You say, just to watch it all burn.

Within seconds, he’s on you, pushing you back onto the bed where the air leaves your lungs in a taken, guttering breath. His knee comes right up between your legs, his hands back on you and roughing you up. 

You wrestle with him and he laughs again, excited, dark and knowing. “Oh, you wanna fight, huh?” He rumbles, grappling with your wrists. His strength shouldn’t make you all hot-blooded for him, shouldn’t make you want to sink into the silk sheets and let him do whatever he pleases but it does. 

You ache already, in the core of your body. 

He gets your hands down on the bed, pins you with his weight and his strength and his large hands. You arch your back, pull at your wrists to try and free yourself. Cry out when he squeezes harder. 

“Am I gonna have to tie you up?” He says through his teeth, manhandling you, keeping you down with his weight. He releases your hands, but he’s on you, and it’s only so he can loosen his belt and slip it off. 

You’re like a little doll, so easily possessed by him. So easily detained. You squirm and kick uselessly beneath him. The belt is slipped around your wrists, the cool leather tightening as he loops it in such a way that binds your hands together and above your head. 

You’re about to snipe something about how the hell he’s supposed to get your clothes off now, but suddenly he grips the front of your t-shirt and just rips. 

You gasp, mouth popping open in surprise for a moment. 

“Fuck you,” You curse then as he starts pushing the shirt to the side, baring your chest to him, which is clad in a lacy, creme bra. His hands immediately glide over the skin exposed, the soft skin of your chest. 

“Yeah, that’s what I want you to do.” Ransom snarks, fingers sliding over the soft fabric of your bra, digging in like he might—

“Don’t you dare!” You hiss, “This was expensive!” 

“I’ll buy you a new one.” He tries to wager, pulling at the fabric a little, forcing you to arch up for him. And what a pretty picture you make for him, already all disheveled and roughed up, eyes shining, hands bound on his bed.

“No!” You try not to whine too much but your voice pitches upward as he palms a breast roughly through your bra, watches you with dark, hooded eyes. And thankfully, for whatever reason, he takes mercy on you and only pulls it downward, so your breasts spill from the top.

His fingers are gentler than you thought they’d be as he rolls your nipple slowly. He leans down to consume you in another bruising kiss, mouth hot and demanding, a little slick and open-mouthed. Messy in its roughness. 

His fingers turn into a sudden, stinging pinch and you mewl lightly into his mouth. He swallows it down hungrily. 

And then his lips drag to your neck, leaving you gasping and squirming, his teeth setting to fragile skin, mouth against your pulse. He sucks hard, until it turns into a blooming bruise of pain and heat. 

“Ransom!” You yelp when it becomes too much, but the damage is done and you know there will be dark marks where he wants. You know there will be evidence of him all over your body by the end of this. 

The rest of your clothes are removed in a hurry, tossed aside, thankfully intact. 

He always gets what he wants, it seems. 

It’d make you livid if it also didn’t make you so--

“Oh, princess, you’re so fucking wet.” He nearly purrs, fingers sliding through where you’re silken and petal-soft, velvety and flooded with heat. 

He gets over excited, too desperate for you, only loosens his trousers, pulls himself out. You feel overexposed with his clothes still on, your bare skin littered with evidence of him, open and vulnerable to him. 

He strokes himself, slow, with your slick before positioning himself. You can tell he’s painfully aroused, too impatient, because the smooth head of him glides along where you’re weeping and sensitive. You mewl, try to twist away from him but he grabs your waist with one, strong hand and holds you still for him.

“Do you have a condom?” You ask, breathless, watching as he makes another slow pass through your folds. 

He snorts slightly, too fascinated with the feel of you, the way you glisten on him to even look up at your face. “No,” And then, “Aren’t you still on the pill?” 

“Well, yes, but--” 

He presses in a little too easily, just the head, and you gasp sharply at the stretch of him already. But! Your mind frets, but you should still be cautious! But it hasn’t been a full week of your new pack! But, but, but!

“Ransom,” You warn, wishing you could push at his thighs, straining slightly with the belt still holding you together. “Don’t-- unless you have a condom.” You get out. 

“I’ll be careful,” He says flippantly, sliding out slowly and back through your aching folds.

He teases you more, makes you ache something awful. Makes your hips buck up and a whine be pulled from your chest. Gets you all desperate until he glides all the way in, bare, and fitting far too snug inside of you. 

“Ransom!” 

He groans, which falls off into a dark, rumbling laugh at the way you keen and squeeze achingly tight around him despite all your protests. A little velvet vice, and he’s delirious and heady with you, struck breathless at the sensation. 

“But you just feel so fucking good like this,” He gets out, drops his head onto your chest, wraps his arms around you tight. You shouldn’t, but you give in to him, let your head drop back and moan, broken and soft, as he fills you.

He likes to fuck close and intimate like this, deep and dirty and with this violent sort of tenderness for you. He likes to make you lose yourself in the slow, rough push and pull of him, so you can’t do anything but take him and cry doing so. 

Your memory is abruptly cut off when Ransom’s hand comes down on the back of your neck, the heated flashes of images you’d been thinking about burning through you. As if he can sense where your mind has gone, (and maybe he can, maybe he can see it in the way your eyes glow and get all wide-- the same way they do when he says something dirty that you shouldn’t like, but do, the slight soft desperation in them), because he smirks slightly. Hooked and curved and too sharp.   

He quirks a brow, “Let’s make this quick.” He says, “So we can leave and I can push that skirt of yours up and--”

“Behave,” You hush, even if your cheeks are still burning, and you pinch his side for good measure anyways. 

He hisses and swats your hand away before you tip your chin up and stride forward, only for the dogs to come rushing out towards the pair of you. Ransom grows upset, jolting back at their jumping and barking. He hates these dogs, whereas you’re able to press onward, allow Ransom to wallow for a moment. 

He shouts at them, before hurrying after you and into the safety of the arching, dark doorway. 

The party is already in full swing; you’re both late, of course. Ransom wanted to spend as little time as possible here tonight. But upon entering, you’re quickly and eagerly greeted by his mother, who has a drink in hand. 

“Oh! Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise!” She says, perhaps too loudly, but rushes forward to wrap you in a hug. You’re well-liked by most of his family surprisingly, who usually let loose scathing remarks about Ransom not deserving you. 

And you put on a good face for them, try to put on the air of the Harvard princess; you know wealthy people well, even if you haven’t always been the richest. Mundanely middle class for most of your life, but you worked hard to go to Harvard, to play in the big leagues. You know what they like to hear from you and see from you; so you play rich. 

“It’s been far too long!” She continues, pulling away to look at you, and then, “Didn’t think you would’ve stayed with him!” She snarks then, squeezing your arm and you force out a laugh.

You know not to mention you haven’t been with her son. 

“Well, you know Ransom,” You shrug lightly, a dainty, graceful lift of your shoulders,  “He doesn’t like to come around much.” 

“No, the little shit.” She shakes her head, but her smile reappears after a moment, “C’mon, let me get you a drink!” 

And you are led deeper into the house, deeper into the Thrombey’s absurdity and vanity and spiraling greed. 

~ 

 Playing rich is fun for awhile; your diamond bracelet sparkles in the low light and the clothes are expensive and flattering but there’s only so much you can take. You grow tired of putting on your best fake, glittering smile and parading around the big house. 

A moment of reprieve when you speak with Ransom’s grandfather, the man of the hour, Harlan. 

He’s always liked you dearly. Not because you have expensive boots on or because you’re poised and can put on a mask of wealth for an evening, but because you study literature. As an author, he thinks it’s one of the most noble pursuits, one of knowledge found in digging through books, getting lost in the stories only to emerge with concrete ideas and arguments. Larger concepts and critiques of society, a bigger picture that so few seem to grasp and pay attention to. 

So Harlan asks, as he does when he sees you, “What are you reading right now, my dear?” 

And he doesn’t mean what you’re studying, but what you’re enjoying. 

“The Beautiful and Damned.” You tell him and a sudden laugh rumbles from him. 

“A good one to revisit while you’re with my family, surely.” He says, all good natured and warm. 

But the moment is fleeting with everyone vying for his attention, and the evening slinks onward. Petty squabbles are had, more drinks are poured, food taken and eaten and taken. 

While Ransom talks privately with his grandfather, you rest on the couch beside Marta, tucked away in an alcove, reclining leisurely beside the girl you’ve met the past few times at the Thrombey gatherings. She’s lovely and doe-eyed and she smiles very sweetly at you. It’s a little timid and soft and you wonder how her dark lashes might feel against your cheek. 

You offer her wine from your glass, which she declines with a shake of her head. Her smile is earnest and you manage to make her laugh somehow, soft and quiet sighs and giggles that fall from both of your lips. She is slow to open up but now she unfurls before you, petal soft and wonderful and glittering eyed in the softly lit room. 

“You’re my favorite part of the Thrombey’s,” You tell her with a slip of a smile, take another sip of your wine and you think her eyes are following your lips. You feel a flush crawl along your face. 

“Not Ransom?” She asks, because you think she’s wondering. Everyone wonders about you two, about him. No one knows your relationship, no one understands it. They don’t have to, but while you can hear Ransom faintly from the other room begin to raise his voice, you let out a huff of air. Almost a scoff at her question.

“Please,” You say, eyes flickering over to the closed door, where Ransom and Harlan hide behind. “I haven’t been Ransom’s girlfriend in years.” You admit and maybe it’s the wine that makes the words slip from you, drop like precious diamonds from the cave of your mouth. Maybe it’s the honesty of her face, the twinkling empathy in her eyes. She’d be soft, so soft and gentle and--

“I hadn’t even seen him in months until a few days ago, when he asked me to come.” You add, take the last sip of your wine bitterly; it’s turned sour and puckered and dry in your mouth. You set the glass down.

“That’s awful.” Marta says quietly and you don’t realize how close she’s gotten, your thighs touching, almost hip to hip. Your arm is leisurely thrown over the back of the sofa, behind her. 

“Yeah, well,” You say and it comes out breathier than you intend, “That’s Ransom.” 

“Why did you come?” She asks then, not rudely, but genuine. 

You hold up your wrist and your diamond bracelet sparkles in front of her eyes, catches in the darkness there to look like a star. “I got a diamond bracelet if I came.” You say and it’s meaner than you intend it to be, but maybe you’re a little more upset than you thought. Maybe you wanna throw a fit. Maybe you want Marta to comfort you with lips and soothing words. 

Maybe it’s just the wine. 

“That’s not the only reason you came, though.” Marta probes gently, “Is it?” 

Your jaw ticks and your lashes flutter as you turn to face her. “Why else would I?” 

“Because you love him.” She whispers. 

“Love’s a big word, Marta.” You respond, hushed and secretive, and your fingers slip into the hair at the back of her neck. A strand of it slides over your knuckles as you twirl the chocolate lock slowly, silky soft against your skin, “It’s so heavy.” 

She blinks slightly, a rush of pink spreading over her cheeks. “Sometimes.” She whispers, leaning into your touch. 

You wonder if she’d whimper if you pulled her hair, how she’d feel against your throat with teeth and tongue. If she’d cry out all pretty and soft, if she’d give what she gets. 

“It is with Ransom.” You say, but you don’t think it would be with her. It’d be as light as the sigh that escapes her, the little breath that comes from her chest. As light as feathers and silk, snowflakes that swirl in the night sky, petals on the wind. 

A door explodes open, rattles on the hinges, through the whole house. It makes you both jolt away from each other. 

Ransom barrels out. You huff, spring up quickly as you watch him grab his coat and wrench the front door open. 

“I’m sorry,” You tell Marta, “It was nice seeing you.” You say earnestly and then move to follow, to find your coat, and hurry out the door and into the chill of the night. 

“What the fuck?” You shout to Ransom as you slam the front door shut behind you. 

His eyes flash dangerously in the darkness, “Get in the fucking car.” He says, “We’re leaving.” And he slides into the front seat and slams the car door just as hard. 

He’s in a mood, then. 

You hustle over, slip into the passenger side and he peels out of the driveway and down the dirt path.

He’s eerily quiet. Uncharacteristically so. The growl of the car fills the silence with rumbling, with an unsettled sound that rattles through you.

You don’t dare break the quiet first. 

And the quiet stretches and stretches, stretches thin until it breaks--

“I forgot something.” He says suddenly, jerking the car to the right, pulling off the road. 

“What’d you forget?” You ask, browns furrowing. He doesn’t answer you, though, only stops the car, kills the engine. He stares in silence for a moment, as if he’s making a decision. You can feel your heart in your chest, the steady thrumming that skips when he raises his eyes in the darkness. The red light of his dash casts him in crimson, in unnatural white light. 

The whole world feels at a stand-still, on a teetering precipice.  

“I’ll be back.” He says and he leaves you, slides out of the car and into the night. Your stomach sinks for some reason, the plummet catching you off guard. 

So you wait for him, alone, as a decision that changes everything is made.

***

Ransom is quiet still, pensive, when you both return to his apartment. After all that anger, you thought maybe he’d take it out on you. You’d both yell and scream and then end up making up on the kitchen countertops, furiously trying to rip away clothes and egos and pain.

But he’s uncharacteristically gentle with you as he lays you out on his sheets. Silver light from the moon, the faint stars, cut across the bed like a knife. Slices over his face in a diagonal, one half eclipsed, and the other luminous and sterling silver. 

He gets rid of your clothes with reverence, looks over you with hunger and thinly veiled tenderness. A violent sort of need that makes him seem wolfish, even in his gentleness. He covers you, enfolds you in shadow and the curling strength of his arms. 

He slides down your body, parts your legs and rolls the warmth of his tongue against where you’re most vulnerable and soft. He flutters his eyes up to you, threads his fingers through yours so you have something to hold onto.

He doesn’t stop until you’re crying, arching off his sheets, twisting and turning and tormented. Until tears slide from the corners of your eyes and you’re aching and open and then he gathers you in his arms, nudges his waist into the crook of your own and fits himself in the depth of you.

You gasp, open mouthed, as he finds home. His own groan blooming from the pit of his chest and out against the hollow of your throat. His hands are bruising, gripped too tight, but you don’t even care, not as you toss your head back, let it fall against his pillow. 

The way he looks at you is somewhere between desperation and viciousness. He wants to possess you, he wants to make you delirious with him. Maybe because you’ve made him as mad with you. He wants to infect you the way you’ve infected him.

He wants to belong, he wants to keep you forever. He wants to give you everything, and you think maybe he says so. Maybe he gets it out into the crook of your neck, maybe he presses it into your skin besides all the marks he gave you. His, his, his. 

He curls around you afterward, slides his hands over your vulnerable belly, the skin soft beneath his broad palms. 

“Let’s leave and never return.” Ransom says and you blink, bleary and sleepy, glance at him with a flutter of your lashes. 

“Where would we go?” You murmur, carding your hands through his hair. 

“Paris, maybe.” He rumbles into your skin, fingers creating a strange, swirling pattern on your stomach. 

“You can read and study and write.” He says and for some reason, your heart squeezes painfully. For some reason, you’re still foolish to imagine it. Sitting pretty in a cafe, a worn book in your hands, glasses of wine between the two of you. He’d look stylish and handsome against a violet rose sunset. 

“And what would you do?” You ask softly, a whisper.  

“Anything I wanted.” 

Quietness falls upon you both again, slow and heavy. He fingers the skin of your stomach, slides over it in strange rhythms only he knows. You’re nearly on the brink of sleep when he turns his face up to you, totally shadowed now, and says;

“I have to tell you something, baby.” 

And you can tell by the look in his eyes that this is the beginning of the end.    

***

He’d said it was his hour of need and you’re smart so you listen and you absorb. You’re appalled and you’re a little shocked but you-- 

You keep your head on straight. Ransom starts to unravel. 

The moment it’s discovered that his grandfather apparently comitted suicide, he starts to slip into a dangerous edge. He starts ranting and raving and then he’ll go deadly silent and then he’ll become prickly and hot. You are cool and collected. 

You are waiting for your time to strike. 

A detective is hired by Ransom in an attempt to win it all; and you are careful, walk the tightrope slow and steady. You keep him sane and dull the sharp part of him. 

And then, the way a ribbon is pulled apart, Marta slips right into Ransom’s jaws. His plan didn’t work; Marta didn’t kill his grandfather. Ransom technically didn’t, either. 

You think, maybe, it could’ve been put to rest here. You think maybe he could've walked away. But Ransom never half does anything, doesn’t ever not finish the job. He spirals. 

You wait for a time to strike.    

***

Your time is quick and fleeting and you remember piece of a conversation, a snippet of information that could change everything. 

You speak with Fran on the outskirts of the family as they discuss heavier matters. She chatters a lot, on and on about just about anything. And you carefully weave the conversation, guide it slowly but surely towards this one factor;

“You have a friend that does toxicology, don’t you?” 

She nods enthusiastically, tells you about what he does, how interesting it is. How long she’s known him. You gaze at the family, at the way they try to be hush and talk and end up bickering. Fran’s voice comes in and out, the world turning slow. 

Another argument breaks out. Voices raising, cutting over each other. Ruthless. And poor Marta who has to deal with them all, whose only in this position because--

You glance at Ransom, watch his handsome face screw up into a mocking smile as he speaks with his relatives. Smug, greedy, too arrogant. You think about what he said; running away to Paris. To Rome or anywhere in the world. You wonder if you could’ve been happy with him-- dream about a life never lived. A path never taken. 

Because later, when Ransom tells you to keep watch so he can slip the antidote back in Marta’s bag, you step away. You hide in the bathroom, peak through the crack in the door, breathe slow and quiet as you watch Fran catch Ransom in the act.

Watch as it all comes crashing down; a domino effect that will slide into place now. You watch as you tip the first scale, as you set the life you could’ve had with Ransom up in flames. Fran disappears, obviously upset and reeling with what she’s discovered. 

You emerge once more, greet Ransom with a kiss on the cheek. 

A Judas kiss, betrayal placed softly upon his skin. 

You force yourself to look into his eyes, so he doesn’t suspect a thing. You smile at him, the kind of smile that makes him kiss you. Hard and quick and furious. He calls you his Bonnie, says so against your lips. 

You laugh and hope it doesn’t come out as tumbling and mad as it sounds to your ears. 

 ***

When all is said and done, Ransom ends up behind bars, just as you knew he would. Just as he should be. He thinks you had nothing to do with it, he thinks you’re gonna help him out of this one, too, somehow. 

So you visit him in prison, dressed in Chanel and fur and the Cartier white-gold bracelet that flashes so prettily. Your heels click against the cold, tile ground as your approach the stall to speak with him. He sits behind the glass in an orange jumpsuit, garring and horrible. It’s unzipped slightly, showing his broad, muscled chest, rolled up at the elbows. A far cry from his lavish coats and scarves and sweaters. 

His eyes glint when they see you, a tilting of his head that is arrogant and predatory. His smile is hooked when he sees you. 

With all of your grace, you glide to him, take a seat in front of him. In front of the glass. You both stare at each other a moment, his eyes always so hungry and wolfish. Heat flares slowly inside of you, an inkling of torment from hell, from the devil before you. 

Slowly, with measured ease, he picks up the phone to speak with you. 

You reach for it, too, your eyes still on him. 

“Hello, princess.” He rumbles into the phone. 

“Hello, Ransom.” You say almost hushed. 

“I miss you,” He says with his curling smile, a flash of sharp teeth. You think of them at your neck, on your pulse that beats rapidly. 

“When I get out of here, let’s leave.” He then says, soft and murmured, “Let’s leave and never look back. I’ll take you wherever you want.” 

You hum on that, look over him slowly, and you think that seeing him here, in the jumpsuit, behind the glaring glass, leaves your dreams of Paris dashed and destroyed. The idea of loving him, sitting on that balcony with a book in your hands and his hand on your thigh as you watch the city fall into dusk shatters right in front of you. You can put it to rest once and for all, dig a grave inside the pit of your chest and bury it. 

“I don’t think you’ll get out for a long time, I’m afraid.” You tell him finally. 

His eyes darken, brows furrowing, “What are you talking about? I’ll get the best lawyers, you’ll help me--”

“I won’t.” You say, finding his eyes, shaking your head the slightest amount. 

His eyebrows shoot up, his face becoming cold and hard and outraged, “You won’t?” He asks, and then, “Thought you were my Bonnie?” His jaw ticks in anger, in pain that bubbles up inside of him, “You know I could get you here on assisted murder. I protected you. You knew everything--” 

“Oh, Ransom,” You say, a slight sigh, pitying and soft. And now it’s your turn to be sharp-smiled, a slip of fox’s wit, “Who do you think led Fran to look into the toxicology reports?” You ask lightly. 

He blinks, his mouth suddenly falling open. 

“How do you think she caught you replacing the antidote to Marta’s bag?” You ask him, tilting your head, the look in your eyes cunning and quick and burning. 

He stares in disbelief. 

“I know I’m psycho,” You sigh, lift your finger to the glass, draw a swirling pattern as if you’re stroking his face. All that you feel is the cold, clear glass. “But you didn’t think I’d let you get away with this, did you?”

He sits back in shock, staring at you. And then a laugh bursts from him, rough and hard and he looks at you with awe, with a wild sort of amazement. 

“Backstabbing, rotten bitch.” He says, but it’s with fondness. Like he can’t believe someone bested him, like he can’t believe you could be so cutthroat or ruthless, “You really were made for me, weren’t you?” 

He looks at you like he wants to take you up against the glass in front of everyone, like he wants to punish you and praise you and love you so violently that you can’t see or feel anything but him. 

But there is no rough love making, there is nothing but the glass between you and the triumph and the ache inside your ribs. 

“It seems so.” You say and you let your hand fall away from the glass, your diamond bracelet clinking lightly. You take a last look at him, sear him into your memory like this, looking at you like you’re both the best and worst thing the world could ever give him.

“Goodbye, darling.” You purr, even if your heart is burning, even if your breath is tight. And then you hang up the phone and rise, graceful and elegant as ever. 

You can hear his laughter, feel the way his eyes try to keep you here, brand you and scorch you. 

You walk out with your head high, a too-clever grin touching the corner of your lips and a weight off of your shoulders, but a sinking feeling in your stomach.

You’ll miss him, you think, even if all the world knows you shouldn’t. 

[cherry3point14]

Cookies & Milk

Pairing: Dean x British!Reader Warnings: Established D/s, mind you don’t fall down the crack Word Count: 2,172. Summary: Dean buys you some cookies. You call them biscuits. Arguments ensue, lines are drawn and restraints are required. A/N: Have any of y’all met @winchesters-meaty-feast? She’s my pal and partner in crime. We have extensive conversations about many a subject but one day the most important topic arose. Biscuits. I’m a dunker, she is not. It almost tore us apart but luckily we’re stronger than that. Anyway, I drabbled this Dom/sub biscuit thing in our chat and the following CRACK is what snowballed from that. (This is meant to be dumb ok. Don’t come for me over this weirdness.) 

Ao3 if you prefer.

You should close your laptop.

In the late afternoon—underground where the time of day doesn’t matter—even then the light it’s emitting is too blue. Sure, you could turn down the brightness but it’s too little too late. Your eyes are already starting to ache from the strain.

You're not even doing anything important. You started scrolling a few hours ago; a news story that might have been something, but turned out to be nothing. Less than nothing, it was mundane. Dull as dishwater, as your mum might say. You would have closed your laptop then if it hadn’t been for that link at the bottom of the page. To another article, this time about an unexpected cold snap. This leads you to look up weather trends in Kansas, which becomes reading the articles on weather.com. Who even knew weather.com had articles? Still, they do and they’re very informative. The problem is that their data all points to it being cold as balls soon (your term, not theirs). So, now you’re shopping, with a pair of snow boots and two winter coats in your basket. And you’re debating a new scarf to put you over the free shipping threshold.

It is really time to shut your laptop before you go ahead and checkout. Dean hates having to pick up your parcels in town. Always complains that you have a problem. Pretty hypocritical considering the number of breweries he keeps in business. Besides he doesn’t even have a reason to complain, Marta loves seeing him, she lights up like a Christmas tree for him. You walk into the post office and you get a ton of side-eye, plus a ten-minute wait, but Dean? Well, he’s always at the front of her line.

You’re so engrossed in shopping that you don’t immediately look up at the sound of the bunker door. It’ll be Dean, you know that much. He’ll have a couple of brown bags from his supply run and you don't want to insult him by insinuating that he needs help.

It’s for the greater good anyway, the longer you sit here the more chance there is of you buying him snow boots too. Maybe he'll let you buy him a hat too.

Once he’s finished stomping his way down the stairs he sets the paper bags down next to you. It just so happens that's the exact moment you finally look up at him. A grateful smile on your face and over the top fluttering eyelashes—to remind him how loveable you are.

He shakes his head at how obvious you are. “I didn’t buy them for just you.” His unnecessary emphasis is all the permission you need.

“Is that smoke?” You sniff the air, one arm sliding inside the nearest bag, “must be the fire in your pants.”

He tries. Bless his heart. He tries to hold out. You can see him chewing the inside of his mouth as your arm moves about inside the bag to liberally finger his goods. The haul from the supermarket anyway. But he cannot resist your lame jokes and it ends the same as always. He cracks. A twitch of his lip, shaking his head and then an eye roll even Sam would be proud of.

“Other bag, Sherlock.”

“Ah-ha!” You grin when you switch to the other bag. Instead of fresh fruits and vegetables, you’re treated to food of the more processed variety. Plastic bags filled with crisps, a pie carton and, oh he really does love you, biscuits.

You slink back down to your screen, tearing the package open with your teeth as you do. Revitalised by the imminent influx of sugar. Dean sighs but doesn’t say another word. He picks up the rest of the groceries and carries them away. Presumably to the kitchen by the distant sounds of him putting everything away.

It’s another five minutes when he returns with a glass of milk that he puts down next to you. With a determined thump of glass on wood, as if the sound is an entire explanation.

“Thanks, but you know I don’t…”

“Take the damn milk.”

Normally you’d be irritated for being cut off mid-sentence, but it’s his exasperated tone that catches your attention. You even deign to look at him again, ignoring the popup that’s offering an extra 15% off if you enter your email. “You ok?”

He scratches at the scruff on his jaw while he tries to internally talk himself down from the ledge. “Nothing, nothing. Drink the milk, please.”

You look from him to the glass and frown at the white liquid. There’s nothing wrong with it per se. It looks like a perfectly good glass of milk, the kind you might see on a ‘got milk’ ad from the nineties. It’s not that you hate milk, you just prefer your biscuits to have a little bite. Dean should know that by now but if he’s forgotten then you are more than happy to remind him. “You eat your biscuits how you want, let me eat mine how I want.”

In your attempt to be rational you have failed to notice the desperation in his, 'please'. And now you’ve managed to tick him off.

“Cookies,” he grinds out.

“What?”

“They’re cookies. Dammit, you’ve lived here long enough to call a cookie a cookie.”

The outburst is not Dean’s fault. He’s not exactly hoarding MAGA caps and asking you to go back to England. No, this outrage is the product of a very specific joke that you might have taken too far.

Ordinarily, you switched back and forth between American and British all the time. As easy as breathing. You’d lived in the good ol’ US of A for long enough that your brain simply picked out the first word it could reach. A lot of the time it ended up being American without much intention, people understood better. 

And then a few weeks back you’d been on the way to a hunt, sprawled in the back seat. Despite the fact that you were still strategizing with Sam you were comfortable. You could have fallen asleep right there if Sam hadn't kept talking. The word had slipped out on a whim. You called Baby’s trunk a boot.

Dean—being an absolute drama queen—had slammed on the brakes and eloquently asked what the fuck you called his Baby. Apparently, it was the first time you’d said that particular British word.

If you hadn’t found his reaction utterly hilarious that would have been the end of it. Except you did find it funny. The way his face soured, that little crease in the middle of his brow, he was so offended by four little letters. It was beautiful.

Now it’s been a few weeks of very purposeful language choices. Asking to borrow his mobile to make a call, or to wear his hoodie. And you’ll admit the ‘pip pip cheerio’ as he left the bunker earlier had been excessive. That isn’t even a real thing people say.

You’ve been torturing the poor guy with British slang. And because this isn’t the first time you’ve taken a joke too far, you’d usually hold your hands up and apologise. You’re good at apologising. He likes when you have to apologise because you always make it worth his while.

The problem is, biscuit had been an honest-to-god slip of the tongue. It had been the most natural word for your brain to conjure and so his anger seems a tad unjustified. Utterly out of proportion.

“It’s a biscuit.” You repeat as you take a bite, noticing the way his left eye seems to twitch at the crunch.

“It’s a cookie. It says right there on the packet. It’s a fucking sandwich cookie.” He points at the ripped plastic on the table for emphasis.

You sigh with the kind of effort that forces all the air from your lungs. “This country can’t spell half the time, why should I trust the packet?”

“Because you’re eating from it.”

He’s got you on a technicality. And he knows it. He knows it by the telling pause before you speak and the flash of panic in your eyes.

“So?”

It’s not an argument that’s going to win world-class debates but you couldn’t go ahead and let him have the last word.

Dean's problem now is he thinks he’s got you on the ropes, so he goes and gets cocky. He puffs out his chest a little and bites back a smirk.

“So? So… cookies and milk is as American as apple pie-”

“Invented by the Dutch.”

“-whatever. It’s a thing. Which means you gotta sit down, shut up and drink your fucking milk.”

You always love it when he does that. Argues his way to a conclusion whether he’s right or not. It’s kind of ridiculously hot.

Or at least that’s how you justify putting your half-eaten biscuit down. Slowly rising from your chair and crawling onto his lap. You lean in, slow enough to tease him, letting your breath settle over his skin as you whisper in his ear. “I know a way we could settle this.”

“What’re you doing?” He manages between teeth that are grinding against each other. The muscles in his arms are tense where he’s pulling at the rope that holds him.

Any other night and you might calm him down at this point. Remind your good boy that he shouldn’t hurt himself. Or depending on the game you’d remind him who he belongs to, who he’s foolishly directing his anger towards. But there’s no soothing touches or harsh reminders bestowed upon Dean tonight. This game is different. This is a battle for dominance, unlike one you’ve played before.

For the first time, he wants to win as much as you do.

There’s no mutual satisfaction in the room because you’re both out for blood. Where blood equals being right about snack goods. And unfortunately for Dean, he didn’t figure it out before he let you tighten the ropes around his wrists.

“I thought that was obvious, baby. I wanted something sweet.”

His eyes flick between the glass of milk he’d seen you carry in and the cookies plated up beside it. Well, you’d call them biscuits but that’s not what this argument is about.

“Don’t you dare.” There’s a threat in his voice.

For a moment it surprises you and you’re quick to counter him, “I’ll do what I like.” Your tone is reminder enough for him to remember his place.

He retreats a little, gives an inch so that you can take a mile. A breath rattles through his chest doing little to calm his tightly wound body. At the very least, he switches anger for desperation. Dean knows you love it when he pleads, “please Princess. Please, I’m begging you. Dunk it.”

Your entire body glows a little when he calls you by your name. The change in his attitude only urges you onwards though, with a smirk turning up the corners of your mouth.

Your hand finds a treat, fingers picking it up with deliberate, delicate movements. His eyes are wide as he watches you hover the biscuit over the glass as if maybe you’ll appease him. The whimper he lets out when you bypass the drink is almost fulfilling enough that you’re no longer hungry. Almost.

The room takes on an eerie silence as you part your lips and take a bite. A loud, crunchy bite. Crumbs fall onto the table beneath you—probably in slow motion— and chewing only seems to increase the volume.

“Son of a bitch.” He mutters as you swallow, “you’re crazy.”

You hadn’t planned on it but you walk across the room then, half a biscuit in your hand and a satisfied smile on your face. He’s slumped in his chair a little. He’s defeated since he knows he won’t defeat the knots keeping him in place.

“Come on, try it for me.”

“Go to hell.”

It's your turn to roll your eyes, “don’t be so dramatic, you’ve been to hell. This can’t be that bad.”

As you reason with him, you slide into his lap again, which will be torture enough because he can’t touch you. Except you also hold the biscuit to his lips.

“Please. For me. Be my good boy.” You coo as if you're not toying with him.

His thighs twitch beneath you at the use of his nickname and, because he’s always your good boy, he opens his mouth.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23 Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278 @bloodydaydreamer

[rosepetals-flyingbirds]

Þorrablót.

Þorrablót: Ancient Viking tradition -which bears its name because of Þorri, a month of the old Icelandic calendar- was originally a feast of sacrifice involving the blood of oxen and goats. Contemporary celebrations involve many Nordic eating and drinking, including smoked sheep’s head, chopped lamb’s testicles and rotting shark. In smaller cities, visitors are usually invited to join the residents.

Pairing: Modern Ivar x Reader.

Warning: Smut.

Word Count: 4.3K

Gif’s credit: @therealcalicali​

“Hvitserk no!” Aslaug patted her hungry son’s hand out of the cookies that were above the counter.

Shaking his hand trying to get rid of the sting of the slap Hvitserk pouted. “Come on, mother. It will take hours for dinner.”

Marta -the family’s maid- laughed and grabbed a cupcake handing to him. “Go help your brother and maybe the hours will pass faster.” She stated with a smile and Hvitserk shrugged, a cupcake was better than nothing.

Walking to the living room he spotted his brother setting the decorations.  “And done.” Siggurd inhaled, relaxing his arms as the final decorations were placed perfectly around the place.

Ragnar grinned brilliantly at Siggurd and Ubbe as they climbed down from their step-stool. “Better than the last year!” He patted them both on the shoulders. “This is the best part of the holiday, I just wanted for Ivar don’t be an ass and help us.”

Ubbe chuckled, and darted his eyes to the stairs that led to his younger brother's old room. “He’s too occupied complaining about life to come down.”

“If he had half as much holiday spirit as he used to have he’d be here for sure.” Siggurd stated before darting his eyes to Hvitserk and his full mouth. “What is that?”

“Nothing?!”

Realizing what it was Siggurd placed his hands on his hips. “Mother let you eat while we have to wait until dinner?!”

Swallowing Hvitserk tried his best to look innocent. “No.”

Ubbe smirked at the answer were clearly was a lie and watched as his brothers gave him each other a look.

Ragnar shrugged and got back to Ivar’s topic. “Ivar would be a lot happier if he knew Y/N just called your mother to say she will come.”

Hvitserk breathed, stroking his hands. “Don’t tell me I’m the one who has to go up and tell him that Þorrablót is done.”

“Why?” Siggurd answered.

“Ivar always gets tense when we talk about Y/N, you know he still has a crush on her.” Hvitserk guessed. “Or he’ll simply leave.”

Ubbe snorted. “I will tell him.”

Watching Ubbe leave Hvitserk and Siggurd looked at Ragnar who smiled and clapped his hands before looking at the decorated rooms searching for any mistake.

Ivar didn’t hear his brother entering the room, his earphones popping as he watched an Inglorious Bastard for the hundred time on his Dell notebook.

Ubbe had to slap his little brother’s leg to win his attention, jumping Ivar almost fell off the bed in fright. “Shit! What do you want, Ubbe?”

“Prevent you from being shocked at dinner.“

Pausing his movie Ivar darted his eyes over Ubbe’s face trying to figure it out something. "What do you mean with that?”

“Y/N’s coming.”

Ivar’s heart must’ve jumped as his eyes widened. “Y/N? The Y/N?“ He hasn’t seen you in what seemed years, as the Ragnarsons moved off Aslaug’s house to start their lives and you moved from your parent’s as well he hasn’t seen you in person in a year or so, of course, social media kept him aware of your appearance but you weren’t the annoying girl across the street anymore. Nor the girl that he had his first time with.

“Yes, Y/N Y/L/N. Mother called her a few weeks ago and invited her to celebrate it with us, since when she was younger she always found it fascinating.” Ubbe stared at how Ivar’s mood had changed already.

Ivar smiled at that, how you had almost puked when Ragnar ate minced testicles of sheep for the first time -a traditional plate of the holiday-.

Ivar rubbed his face before letting one hand on his cheek staring at the paused movie on his screen. “Shit… I have to get dressed!” Getting on his feet he opened the drawers where he placed some clothes he had bought to stay the week. Ubbe laughed, truly mesmerized at the scene. "Fuck you, Ubbe.”

“Well, I will let you doll up for her-” Receiving a shoe being thrown at his face Ubbe could laugh but the burning feeling was heavier. “Okay okay, I will stop.”

Ivar’s heart was hammering. You were going to be there tonight, at the dining table, with his family, like you did when you were 8 years old while staring at Hvitserk eating rotting shark.

You were going to sleep at the house -since your parents had moved-. Ivar swiftly started to enjoy the holiday again.

He succeeded to find a good outfit, he stared at his glasses and wondered in placing them or not, you would think he looks smarter with them? Or he looked better without them?

                               …

At 8 PM he was ready and in the living room with his brothers and uncle, his hands were sweating and he rolled his eyes when he realized Siggurd and Hvitserk were gazing at him with a conspiratorial speculation. “Stop!”

Smiling Siggurd let a sigh. “Ah the love, you know brother… if even you are capable to feel it, I know everything is possible.” Siggurd joked.

Hvitserk laughed nodding. “Let just hope she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

“What?!”

Siggurd shrugged, his brother’s desperation not going unnoticed. “You know, she is pretty, she is hot and really really nice, what makes you think she is single?”

Ivar widened his eyes and stared at the fireplace, why he hasn’t thought about it beforehand?

Ragnar chuckled and found amusing how Ivar was concerned. “Stop torturing him, when she comes here we can make a small talk and ask.”

The fact was that Ivar was only hanging around so that he could jump on you as soon as you stepped through the door and cover you in one of his massive -rare- bear embraces. Ivar hardly even spoke a hello to anyone else except it was his relatives.

                                …

Finally reaching the house that brought you so many memories you let a sigh. The house was the prettiest one in the neighborhood, it didn’t fail to give all the Ragnarsons a solo bedroom.

The instant you walked through that door, holding a bag with a few pieces of clothes inside, you hugged Helga who always said how much you made part of the big family. “It is so good to see you! Floki looks who is here!” Calling over her husband the people in the living room didn’t wink before looking at you, Ivar’s heart hammered and he wanted to rip it off!

Politely hugging the people you grow up considering your uncles and aunts you saw Ivar over there sat in the couch, his eyes piercing over your form.

He truly looked great.

After hugging Ragnar and then Siggurd, Ivar came near and opened his arms. Giggling you hugged him with all your strength, how solid and real he was under your embrace made your heart flutter.

Ivar scooped you up, his arms clenching around you urgently as he crushed his body to yours. You snickered squeezing him back just as intensely, moving only to give his cheek a welcome kiss.

“I missed you.” Ivar sighed, his orbs traveling over your features and body. You haven’t changed much, maybe you look a bit more mature, even more sensuous than he remembered. You held yourself with more confidence and your smile was as pretty as he memorized it.

“And here I thought you would ignore me the whole night.” You fooled, Ivar wasn’t the easiest person to be around, you were fearing he would ignore you and just speak to make remarks as for how you haven’t talked with him in ages… gladly it wasn’t the case. “I’m glad you didn’t forget me.”

A sudden nervousness reached you as he got a genuine glance at you.

Ivar swung his head breaking his intense stare. “I did, but Ubbe made a powerpoint presentation of pictures of you and your genealogy tree so.” You both explode into giggling, Aslaug winking at you across the room.

After a small talk Ivar grabbed your bag and told that he would place in the guest’s room, you thanked him and sat on the couch between Ubbe and Siggurd talking with your old friends.

Walking upstairs he heard the guests talking and laughing, and for the first time, he wasn’t bothered by it.

The dinner happened and as always your eyes gazed at the traditional food in wonder, you couldn’t possibly try that.

Hvitserk prepared a few drinks he learned in his restaurant, so many fancy drinks but delicious nonetheless.

Ragnar had suggested you try his own Special Þorrablót mixture which he didn’t tell you what was in it, but Ubbe swore it was safe.

It was a mesmerizing holiday, even more at how in peace everyone was with each other.

More food and more drinks came and everyone was laughing, and enjoying their time.

Your chair was beside Ivar’s who had a hand resting in your thigh the whole time. “I’m really happy you came.” He said near your ear. Ivar had been touching you all night.

Since the chairs were so near it was bound to happen, but how he handed you the dishes or drinks always making sure to maintain eye contact was making you all hot inside.

“Me too.” You responded, laying a hand atop his. “I missed you.”

“Y/N do you want another drink?” Floki asked cutting your and Ivar’s gaze.

“Hmm, no, thank you. I think I had enough for a night.”

“Beginner.” Scoffing lightly Floki winked making you smile. Maybe you should just marry Ivar already to be part of his family.

‘Wait, what? Definitely not more drinks for me.’ The line of thought was cut when Hvitserk threw a piece of bread at you.

“Why took you so long to come back?”

Grabbing the bread ready to throw at him you glanced at Aslaug who didn’t seem to like the idea of a food fight over her expensive dinner, letting the bread in your plate you shrugged. “Basically work, and besides you now live on the other side of the city.”

“But we could have hang out sooner, Siggurd lives near my place and it would be really nice.”

You nodded, the boys were really important to you, but adulthood didn’t fail to put distance on friendships. “That is true, maybe we a change that right? I have tickets for the new Jurrasic Park movie, we could go.”

“Sure, it will be awesome.”

Ivar didn’t like the interaction with his brothers. You should be the one asking him to go to the movies with you, not his brothers. Biting his lower lip, his hand slightly tightening encompassing your skin.

Ivar could just picture ravishing you in the table in front of his brothers.

“(…) go too.” Breaking his angry gaze at his brothers he looked at you, asking what you had said as you laughed at how in trance he was. “I said you can go too, I have four tickets anyway. Sorry, Ubbe!” You glanced at the man who pouted but nodded.

Ivar thought for a moment, maybe it would be nice… but his brothers would be there… and he hates going in the movies with Hvitserk! His brother seemed like he couldn’t stop chewing for a mere scene, it didn’t matter if it was popcorn, cotton candy or the most annoying one: M&M’s! “No thank you.”

Your smile fell at that, there was the moody Ivar you remember.

The situation was clear at the table and Ragnar patted his hands together catching everyone’s attention, Ivar’s hand slipping from your thigh. “Okay! Floki you told Helga about the fishing trip we talked about?”

Floki closed his eyes and looked at Helga with a small distant frown. “Not yet.”

Widening her eyes Helga gave her husband a threatening look. “Fishing? Floki you just got out of a cold! You can’t go!”

Aslaug drank her wine and decided the dinner had finished. “Well, let’s go stay in the living room. As the subjects had died down here already…”

Marta came to take the dishes and you got on your feet to help, rolling your eyes at how the boys didn’t even move you waved your hand calling their attention. “Come on, you guys just ate, get your asses up to help.”

Snorting they did so, Hvitserk grabbing the glasses, Siggurd the plates and Ivar the bows. “Ubbe just because you’re the older one doesn’t mean you can just sit there.”

Rolling his eyes he nodded and started to help too.

“I always told how of a good influence she is on them,” Ragnar said smiling and Aslaug nodded.

Indeed, a great influence.

Helping to place the leftovers in the fridge you brushed your arm’s on Ivar’s, his frowned face slowly becoming happier again.

                                …

The family sat in the spacious living room, and told stories about their ancestors and what they did on the holiday.

Always so fascinating.

The subjects went south and quickly Floki and Ragnar were sharing their adventures and craziness situations while teenagers.

Ivar was sitting beside you again, maybe it was the drinks he had because he was as touchy as he was in the table, but of course, now everyone saw how his hand was touching you and how possessive he looked grasping at you each time someone focused their gazes at your direction.

Your smile was ample, enthusiasm boiling in your veins feeling his hands and how of a good time you were having.

Ragnar got on his feet with a grin. “I think we should go settle the fireworks!” He announced and you looked at Ivar in wonder, they never used it before.

“Fireworks?”

Rolling her eyes Aslaug nodded, you didn’t miss the dangerous gaze she threw at Ubbe -who agreed with his father’s idea-.“Yes, Ragnar had the brilliant idea of it.”

You bit your lower lip, the firework is a pretty sight! But it was really loud and it hurt the poor animals’ ears. “Don’t worry Y/N, I know how you hate those things because how it scares the animals, but all the animals around are safe and sound inside their houses with their owners so they won’t get much scared nor run in the street.”

Shrugging you nodded, isn’t like you could change their minds anyway. “Okay then.”

Everyone left to see the fireworks but you a let a forced yawn. “Thank you guys for everything but the flight was complicated and I’m really tired.”

“No problem. Good night, darling.” Hugging you Aslaug left and you gave your goodbyes to each one of them.

Ivar didn’t move, and enjoying the opportunity of privacy his lips quickly found yours.

“Can you show me my room?” Softly saying against his lips Ivar’s great perception caught your meaning.

Walking upstairs holding hands you could feel your skin burning in anticipation.

Recognizing the bedroom he tucked you in you let a smile, his old bedroom. The place where you two had your first-time years ago, it was a great day, the family had traveled and Ivar stood at home saying he didn’t want to go see his other relatives, as always Aslaug made her youngest son’s desire and he stood alone. Which began to you visiting to watch a  few movies, as your own parents had night shifts you slept there, at first it wasn’t your intention to have sex… but things happened and it was actually good -especially for the first time-.

Hearing the door being closed and locked you looked around. “Why do I have a feeling that one is not the room Aslaug prepared for my staying?”

Shrugging Ivar seemed really okay with your new settlement. “That one is comfier, besides…” Reaching your hand he pulled your body near his, embracing you tightly and roaming his hand on your hair. “That one has a natural body heater.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” Kissing you, Ivar’s hands traveled your form, you didn’t lose time to unbutton his shirt. The fireworks started and not even the loud sound broke your moment.

The touches intensified promptly as he laid you down on his bed. His touches were definitely firmer than the last -and first- time. “You are so beautiful, even more than before.” Smiling at his words, his lips trailed down your neck. “How is that possible?” Looking at you with a smile you giggled, your hand in his hair taking the hair tie off.

He had such soft hair, it wasn’t fair!

“Well, I might not have the Rganarson’s genes but…!” You shrugged gaining a laugh, if you weren’t caressing his hair while his crotch was near yours he would fell a ping of jealousy at how you mentioned his brothers -and father- but he let it go and kissed you.

Tugging off your pants he kneeled down in the bed to take it off of your legs. Not missing to take your boots off and trailing kisses on both legs on his way up to your mouth.

Wandering your hand on his opened on button shirt you took it off of his shoulders and smiled at how more strong he seemed.

Squeezing his bicep you moaned at his mouth and rolled so he was on his back as you straddled him. Taking the hem of your shirt you stood in your bra and panty above him. Your breasts might look fuller than before since he couldn’t take his eyes off of them.

You let your hands roam on his chest, his pants becoming tighter in each second on his erection. You moaned at the mere sight of him, you have had a crush in the fucker ever since you could remember.

A few voices started outside, apparently, Hvisterk didn’t manage to put the fireworks to work.

Giggling at their bickering Ivar didn’t want to lose time, grabbing your hips on his strong hands he rolled you and hovered over you. Getting rid of his pants you took your bra off.

On his boxes he attacked your lips again, now just a single line of fabric separating you two. Your hands scratched his sides slightly winning a moan, taking the waistband of his underwear you rolled it down and used your feet to push it off his legs.

His cock sprung up. Just as you remembered… long, thick, and leaking with precum. “I really missed you!”

Ivar gave you a cocky grin, his large hands pumping himself a few times. Slapping his hand away you quickly took the action, winning a few whimpers befalling from his mouth.

What a sound.

Gaining his knowledge back he stroked you through your panties, a few seconds passed until he pushed you back and with a rough grasp he clutched your thighs and pushed you to the edge, bending before you among a dangerous look in his eye.

Combing his fingers on your sides, his mouth trailing up the inside of your thighs. Firm fingers pinned into the line of your panties, tearing it down gently.

The moment you were naked he let out a quiet moan, sliding his fingers on your soaked folds. “So wet.” He purred, kissing your thighs as two of his fingers moved up and down. You moaned at the touch, it was enough to make you a whimpering mess.

Licking up your slit he chuckled. “I will never forget how beautiful you looked when you came on my face those years ago.”

You tried to answer but it was quickly forgotten the moment he slid two digits in. Ivar misused no time moving gently on, his fingers brushing your g-spot with each firm stroke. His lips shortly supplemented them, engulfing on your bud till you were glancing at stars.

“Stop.” You stated winning a confused look. “I- Ivar I need you.” He didn’t stop, your hand gripping his shoulders. “I need you inside me right now.” But the man was determined. “I swear I’ll take it myself if you don’t stop.”

The prior word made him chuckle. “I rather like to see you take the control,” Trying to get up he pushed you down. “The next time.” He added and his lips found yours in a feverish kiss.

His events stopped and he got on his feet, before you could ask what happened you saw him opening his wallet and taking a condom.

While he placed it you ran your hands over his chest, your foot tracing up and down on his calf.

Ivar ran your folds with his tip, moving it up and down. When he grew tired of his torturing tease he pushed inside you making your back curve. Ivar held his hand to the base of your back, supporting.

Wrapping your legs around his waist, you two moaned. The loud fireworks finally working outside.

“As good as I remember.” He moaned.

You nodded even so unconsciously before whimpering. “So good, baby you can m-move.” Leaning his hips back and then crashing into you. “Oh, fu-uuck.”

You moaned out, pushing closer to him meeting his thrusts. He left a tender kiss to your cheek, a mute ask if you were good. Nodding, you pulled his neck and kissed him with all the strength you could possibly find.

When you couldn’t reasonably focus on kissing you threw your head back to the pillow and Ivar left sloppy kisses and bites on your neck.

Minutes passed and you were glad the people were outside hearing only the loud thuds of fireworks rather than your and Ivar’s moans.

He was taking you closer and closer to the edge with each pleasurable and painful thrust, Ivar’s hips slamming into yours so hard you were sure you would be brushed later on, good thing it was cold and you could use a scarf on the next day around the family.

“So fucking good. Fuck, Y/N!” He succeeded to say. Your answer was a clench of your walls and a deep scratch on his back. “Come onto my cock baby, let me feel you clench around me.” He stimulated.

Crying out you let go of his back to prevent blood from being drawn and held his neck with one hand while he grabbed the other interlocking your fingers. One of Ivar’s hands was gripping the headboard for support and you came with him following near behind.

Feeling kisses being placed up your neck you opened your eyes -which you didn’t even recall closing-, 90% of his weight was on you, but yet it was a comforting feeling. A safe one, even.

Combing your fingers on his hair you smiled at the thought of coming to his family’s house for the holiday. “You know… I always loved Þorrablót.” You confessed.

Felling his lips move into a smile he leaned back to look at you, his fingers stroking your cheek. "Yeah, it isn’t that bad.”

Hearing the cease of the loud shots you two heard the main door opening and closing with a bang. “You will never do it again, we stood like 40 minutes in the cold.” Aslaug complained.

“Isn’t my fault Hvitserk bought the wrong matches.” Ragnar defended.

“There are no wrong matches you just don’t know how to fire them.” Hvitserk answered with a loud scoff and you smiled at that.

Laughing at the discussion you realized Ivar wasn’t the most temperamental Ragnarson.

                                …

♥

[space-blue]

A High Magic

The theme being pure dialogue, I did not bother with tags. This is my 8th competition win.

You've always known what you wanted to do then, and that's really admirable. In my case at six I wanted to be a vet, as one does, but by eight I'd caught on enough to want to be a firefighter. You know, helping people and stuff. Intervening. At eleven I had made up my mind that I would become a guru. Seemed to me if I were successful, it'd be the best way to have people take proper care of their dead. Change their habits at the root, the core of their convictions.

It wouldn't have changed the way the masses behave. The world is just too big.

Well, I had to believe, right? Plus everything is interconnected these days, word goes round, people follow trends. Could have made my cult all online and reach people everywhere, even abroad.

I suppose... How did that work out?

I never got around to even try. I don't think it would have been that great a success if people knew the origin of my abilities.

Is it so? I find that surprising! Surely it still is impressive no matter what sparks it?

Most people just pitied me. The folks at the evaluation office did too. Listened to me describe all the ghosts, and what I'd come to understand of hauntings, and why the ghosts always ended up following me around in the end, and they nodded and said how it was quite rare to have magic coming out before eight. You know that gramps, don't you? Earliest magics to manifest are the elemental ones–

Fire, air, water...

Yes, and that's 'cause they take no imagination. Anything more complex and the kid needs to have some understanding of higher concepts. It worried my parents a lot, that concept thing. How I got to see ghosts when as far as they knew I didn't know what death was and never did come home with a dead animal and questions. Least of all seen a dead person.

So they just labelled you with a higher, or spiritual magic and left it at that? Surely people saw the value in that at least? Did no one want to investigate?

Not really. Like I said, it spooked people. My assigned magic counsellor drafted a few career paths for me, spiritual re-connector, grief counsellor, Voodoo witch, whathaveyou. He didn't understand! Everyone just assumed I got to see these ghosts if I wanted to. Everybody with magics, small and big, even feral magics, they get to control when they use it. Dead people, they don't work like that. They're there, following their victim of choice, the person they latched on to, and then they notice me seeing them, and that's it! They jump wagon. Because you see, ghosts are just attention seekers! They have to have it! Talking to them is like bacon down a dog's gullet. Makes them follow you loyally. If you see them, and you react to the stuff they do, they're in attention heaven! Some will even just start reciting their entire lives at you, bitch and moan and groan, it's a nightmare.

I guess, you being dead, as everyone around just ignores you... Even the people dear to you, it's quite hard on the mind.

Gramps, do you know how ghosts are made?

Mmmh... Not really? I have my ideas, monks at my temple do too, every culture thought about what happens to the spirit after death. But I'm sure, considering you're the expert...

Right, I don't though. Nobody really does. Here's my educated guess : They're born of people's attention to begin with. People can't get over the death, they rehash it, might have trauma, dreams, they call out to their dead ones, and that makes their essence–whatever ghosts are made of–stick around. They can then coalesce into whatever makes the flavour of ghost they end up as, depending on their own regrets and emotions and drives. They're kept here by that anxious maelstrom of emotion, and form based on their own worst traits. It's a bad mix. So they'd come to me alright, scare the shit out of me and persecute me, right until the day I figured out that you could make them leave!

Hah! How did that happen?

Was at one of my favourite joints. Mikwa kitchen, run by a couple, maybe five tables–didn't matter, food was from heaven's own canteen. Always got the same damn thing, never got tired of it.

I understand. I was the same with corn dogs. Corn dogs never got old, even if I did.

You know what it's like then, long week, tired, tough time at school, girlfriend getting all in my face about my magic being unmanageable... It was a Friday and I was needing my dose of Mikwan to just–

Relax.

Damn right. Anyway. I'm right outside waiting for my take away to be done, and she drops right out of the tree I'm leaning on! Rope around her neck, face all purple, eyes... You get the idea. She starts screaming at me, and man, it was just too much! So I screamed right back at her! "Fuck you, bitch! You don't fucking get to ruin my Mikwan fucking meal. I don't care about your sad shit story, go haunt somebody who gives a shit!"

Ahaha! That's very colourful, young man, but don't yell so–here, let me top up that glass of yours. Go on–what happened?

It worked. She tried to drop out of two more trees on my way back home, walked right past her, cussing but not giving her a glance, and she gave up. Shortest haunting I had had my whole life.

How old were you?

That day? Twenty.

Mmmh, it must have felt like a long time coming. Did you not try to see a soother?

I did. Biggest shock of my life, that.

Did it not work?

That's just the thing! I went a year after the tree lady. I'd managed to find ways to cope by then, but I couldn't believe I struggled this much still with my magic. It just didn't seem worth it, to keep it. So I go to that well recommended soother. With a high cancelling magic. Could erase abilities down flat. Had to save for four months for that appointment. Dude sits me down, grills me about my reasons for being here, and at least he was agreeing with me! Asked if I had consulted with someone to help "master" my magic first. Told him I plain didn't want it. Nothing wrong with having no magic.

Quite true. Never had a shade of ability myself, hasn't stopped me from being happy.

I didn't picture you as magicless somehow, gramps! I thought you'd have a trick like curling up moustaches or something! Hah! Anyway, man puts his hands on me, frowns...

Oh?

Says I don't have a magic at all.

Whaaa–

I know! And he was adamant. Just nothing there for him to remove! He even refused to charge me. It struck me then. In the eval office, they don't touch you. I mean, not for check ups like mine. First they listen to what you can do, or look if you can show. If you fit in a category, that's all there is to it. Only those with big potentials get appointments with staff with abilities. I never saw one. Lady never touched me, she probably had no magic to be able to tell anyway. What I described to her sounded like a pesky magic that would feed a psychiatrist for years, and nothing more. So they never checked. And then you know how it goes: at school, during civic duties, in the army, they ask but unless you make a big splash, nobody sends you to a Senser, or anyone who can tell for sure...

So you spent your whole life thinking you had a higher magic, when in fact you had...

Nothing. Nothing anyone recognised, at least.

That has to have been a shock.

Tell me about it.

But then, what is it?

That soother called a senser friend of his and sent me in for a free appointment. She too said there was nothing there at all. She was fantastic. Marta Balbin, we're still in touch, she's great. Anyway, she tagged with me in search of a ghost we could squeeze for some good intel that their relatives would validate, to prove I did see stuff for real, you know?

Did you show her how cussing at ghosts makes them go away?

Aha, I wish! But no, that's not quite how it works. With tree lady I got lucky. What you need to do is press their buttons, scratch their itch, tell them what they need to hear. Making them leave requires you to interact with them somehow, and I'd spent two decades avoiding that as much as I could.

Ah, I see, each ghost needs their own special interaction in order to be able to move on?

Precisely.

And so she believed you?

Oh yes, and finally helped me meet with a person with answers for me!

How exciting! Pray tell, young lad, tell me what it is!

She introduced me to the high priest of Enmu, in the capital's temple.

The God of the Netherworld? I suppose it makes sense to ask them.

Prepare yourself to be blown away : it turns out I was dead at birth, for two whole minutes the doctors worked on me, and I eventually breathed. Apparently though as a newborn I'd had no sins to weigh and I had already been given a rank in the Great City. So when I was brought back... I was an official of the Great City.

A foot in life and a foot in the Netherworld? Is this even possible?

High priest was the same! All Enmu high priests are! Apparently outside of ceremonies they spend their time putting ghosts at rest.

That is incredible! How can such a secret be so well guarded?

There are only a dozen people like this in the country, so it's not too hard. They'd have found me sooner, if the magics office had done their job properly and not discounted me as a minor seer or medium.

So are you one of them now? A high priest of Enmu? Working for a God?

Precisely.

And you work with ghosts?

What do you think we're doing here, gramps?

I– What?

You're Jeremya Mikkels, an archaeologist deceased at the ripe old age of eighty-eight, you wrote books on ancient civilisations until the bitter end, didn't you? You loved digging up secrets.

Yes–I... I did.

And I just gave you a great secret. A truth you never knew in your living days. Exactly what you'd been craving. You've regretted not digging up more, haven't you? Well, now you can take this very rare knowledge with you to the Great City.

I can? Yes it's... Yes, I suppose I can.

Leave us with no regrets my friend. Times have changed for me too, I enjoyed our chat, a lot more than if I'd met you fifteen years ago!

I would have haunted you...

And I wouldn't have had anything to say to satisfy you. But now, you can go in peace gramps.

Thank you, lad. I can see it and... it means a lot. I'll bring good word of you.

And I'll seek you out in the next life. We shall talk again, and I will bring you more secrets of this world. Now be gone, Jeremya Mikkels. Cross under Enmu's obsidian gate without regrets.

~~ August 2020 – Theme : Pure Dialogue

[beatrice-otter]

Yuletide Recs 2019

Happy Yuletide, everyone! First, I got a delightful little fic written for me: promenade.  My Fair Lady, Eliza Doolittle and Mrs. Higgins.  Wonderful story.  Mrs. Higgins was superb, and Eliza's reactions to the English upper class abroad are perfect. Here are some other fics I have enjoyed: 4'33"--John Cage The Sound Of A Yuletide Fic Not Being Written. There sure are a lot of cars going by.  Great meta look at writing, and 4'33" The Addams Family (movies) An Addams Family Contract (Written in Secret, Signed in Blood).  “I’m an Addams,” Debbie protests indignantly. Immediately after making this statement, Debbie realized that it was true.  (Or, Wednesday wants to exorcise Debbie. Debbie wants to kill Wednesday. A negotiation begins.)  This is AMAZING and hysterically funny, and the thought of Debbie and Wednesday working together is TERRIFYING. Don't I Deserve Love (and Jewelry).  The plan to win Wednesday’s friendship did not start well. She shared her admiration for the girl’s blowtorch, then hinted about her own childhood affinity for matchsticks and fire accelerants, but Wednesday was unimpressed.  Do better,” she said before lowering her hockey mask and stalking after Pubert. Honeymoon in Transylvania.  Ahahahaha, this is wonderful.  Gomez and Morticia vs. the TSA! Alien Series A Room with a Crappy View. 17k of Ripley and Hicks awesomeness post-Aliens. This is an absolutely AMAZEBALLS fic, and I LOVE it. I love that they deal with their trauma. I love how they wrote the Colonel, doing the best she could on the evidence she had and how frustrating that was and yet, when you look at it from her POV, what better way could she have handled it? The action is great, the relationships between Ripley and Hicks and Bishop were awesome, this is an absolute treat. All About Eve Getting Back to Being a Woman.  Karen knew enough not to go to New Haven.  Never let it be said that Margo Channing doesn't know how to take care of her friends.  I love this. I could just hear Bette Davis and the others saying their lines, and the ending is perfect--I think Karen and Lloyd will be able to have a much better relationship after this, if he's willing to accept and live into the changed relationship. Till I have the possession of everything she touches.  Addison DeWitt/Eve Harrington and their daughter.  VERY well done Addison perspective. Aubrey-Maturin series. Vent de Boulet.  Jack & Aubrey, Teen.  The aftermath of Stephen's escape from the French interrogators at Port Mahon.  Wonderful portrayal of the relationship between them and natural consequences of their trauma-filled lives. Babette's Feast Body and Soul.  After the French dinner, a new normal established itself among the faithful. Ballet Shoes A Long Way from the Cromwell Road.  Petrova visits Pauline in Hollywood after the war ends. Bletchley Circle Logical Recovery.  After the showdown with Marta Magro at the warehouses, Jean, Millie, and Lucy embark for Glasgow to find Eliška. Archival research, an extended stay with Jean's cousin, undercover rescue missions, and much emotional processing of past events ensue. Cabaret Infinite Variety.  London, 1950. Clifford has coming looking for Sally. Instead he finds a girl who may or may not be her – or their – daughter, the reclusive former Master of Ceremonies, and an annoying parrot. He becomes part of their strange household, full of love and bickering; sorrow, pain and music. No-one will tell him where Sally is, or even whether she’s alive. No-one will tell him anything. Except the parrot, who tells him that life is a Cabaret.  Oh, wow, this is painful but SO GOOD and the ending is perfect. DC Teen Titans From Cold to Fire.  "Do you want to go out with me?" "What?" Young Justice Getting Stupid in your area.  Hang-time includes considerations of evil clones and taking down a newly raised lich lord.  Love the banter. Die Hard Your Answers Please.  “Come on, kid,” McClane said gruffly. “This place is fucking depressing. You’re coming to stay with me.” Enchanted Forrest Chronicles Best Served Cold.  In which Antorell causes trouble in the Enchanted Forest, and Cimorene and Alianora make an amphibious new friend.  Hilarious, I love Ribbita! Ghostbusters Better Than Roses. Janine dates. It's...something. The Goblin Emperor Imperial (non) Immunity.  Csevet doesn't get sick. Maia's not so confident. Light a Mourner's Candle.  The Archprelate finds a chaplain for Maia. Against a Sure Winter.  When the opportunity arose to become one of the four ceremonial bodyguards for the new Emperor, Cala Athmaza volunteered. He didn't fully realize what he was letting himself in for, but he knew in his heart he had made the right choice. Sugar Lumps.  Maia spends some time with his horse. Greek Mythology beauty, her artificers.  Shortly after their wedding, Aphrodite sustains a small wound.  Really great Aphrodite/Hephaestus dynamic. a thing of beauty, golden.  Olympus’ one-century wonder appears in Hephaestus’ workshop between one strike on his anvil and the next..  Another really great Aphrodite/Hephaestus fic. Hancock yeah I know the shortcut, rather take the long way. Ray daydreams a New York that looks a lot like something out of an old Daredevil comic - towers looming over the city like cragged, jaded sentries, impartial to the neon kaleidoscope of chaos churning along below them. Hancock roosts on the tallest, craggiest one of course, brooding as he watches the slow pulsing heartbeat of the city below him. Ready to dive off his perch and into action with the first cry of distress, and there’s probably lots of those in a city like New York. Lots of zooming around, saving people, saving the world. Hopefully with slightly less metaphorical middle fingers to the world. And less alcohol. Ray’s not an idiot though, and one sparkly life-changing month doesn’t just fix people. History RPF 15th Century. these late eclipses.  Anne Neville, like others of her line, is born with a gift.  I LOVE the way magic is brought into this, it melds so well with the history. 19th Century/German folklore The Bargain.  Bettina finds a secret door at her grandmother's house, one that leads to something very unexpected. The things she learns as a result change her life in small but important ways. Imperial Radch Still Left in Want of Mercy.  The Republic of Two Systems is about a month old. Seivarden is having yet another crisis - can Mercy of Kalr get her through it? Maybe, with the crew's and Fleet Captain's help.  Interesting Ship perspective. high above the trees.  An unexpected embassy. Really excellent, probably the best way I've ever seen "Awn Lives" done. The Incredibles Life of a Superhero, Junior Grade.  Fortunately, this was Tuesday night training, not a real villain-chasing experience. Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell The Magicians of Starecross Hall.  Being a series of interludes in the life of John Segundus, newly practical magician, in the year following the disappearances of Messrs. Strange and Norrell. Including: a new school for young magicians, explorations of the King’s Roads, Lady Pole’s alarming needle-work, unanticipated trips to Faerie, and John Childermass.  I love this story!  How the school got started, and 'Miss Wintertowne' (although I do think she would style herself 'Mrs' Wintertowne, because she is married and up through the 18th Century 'Mistress/Mrs' vs. 'Miss' had as much to do with age and experience and such as it did with marital status) and how she uses embroidery as a kind of art therapy.  I love the slow burn, and I love the stuff about exploring the King's Roads and Faerie.  It is excellent and awesome. Lilo & Stitch The Dance.  Lilo peeked out from behind the curtains and looked over the stage. A Little Princess Discipulae.  "I just realized," Sara said. "Becky, I could have a tutor now. I could hire someone to teach me anything I wanted. All the things that are hard to learn alone from books — Greek and Latin, Sanskrit, algebra, anything I wanted. What would you learn, Becky, if you could?"  Really great look at what their lives could be like post-canon. Marvel Captain Marvel Take my hand (and we'll march to the front lines). There's a dream Vers has sometimes. this youthful heart can love you. Carol waited a week before she left with the Skrulls. Space Cases.  Monica tried many other times to win her mother over to a pet. A rabbit, a pony, a parakeet. This is not any of those stories. This is the story of Monica Rambeau and a Flerken named Goose.  Or: Why Nick Fury is never allowed to babysit ever again. The Tesseract's Wife.  A straight line is not the shortest distance between two points: non-linear snapshots of a love story. Fly Me To The Moon.  "It's a vacation. Like spring break," Carol says. Monica's eyes widen. "Really? So we can hang out? What are we going to do?" "Well," Carol says, leaning back in her chair and flashing that old, familiar smirk. "I thought we could go to the moon." Into the Spiderverse i got you.  Miles thinks he's hiding the truth about Spider-Man, but one unfortunate night, it comes to light. one last leap.  Telling his parents he's Spider-Man is a leap of faith Miles can't bring himself to take. My Life to Liv.  Liv survived her encounters with her interdimensional Spider-nemeses, of course. So what's next for her? Interdimensional Phone Pals.  Gwen Stacy is many things, but open to friendships isn’t really one of them.  Or,  Five rules Gwen makes for herself, and how Peter B. makes her question them. Into the Spiderverse/Murder, She Wrote Spider, She Wrote.  Miles and May visit her old friend Jessica in Cabot Cove. Mulan (1998) the proper order of things. Great outsider perspective. The Mummy After the Mummy.  London was becoming Rick's least favourite place, and not just because of all the rain. Loving Evy was one thing: figuring out whether she loved him back after the Egyptian heat faded away was something else. Where's a good rising of the undead when you need one? Don't worry, Jonathan found one.  Lovely fun adventure. Course Correction.  Jonathan really is serious about staying away from tombs and mummies this time (except trouble always seems to find him). Good thing Ardeth is there to help him stay on-track. Travelers by Night.  Very quickly, Jonathan weighed the odds. On one hand, potential death, whether by armed bandits, a mummy’s curse, or people who looked like bandits and who were very angry about someone unleashing a mummy’s curse. On the other hand, potential riches, home ground, and topics of conversation other than what happened at school fifteen years ago and who got it in the neck where. Murderbot How I Spent My Vacation Between Survey Missions. What happens when ART reunites with Murderbot during another break between research survey missions? Media gets viewed, of course, but there might also be some bad news for more shady corporations. Situation Normal.  Hi, I said, along with amusement sigil 159 = wave. It seemed a little inadequate, but what do you say to the ship that radically altered your appearance, helped you figure out your past, and also threatened you with terrifying weapons? Amusement sigils seemed like my best bet. My Fair Lady Here We Are Together.  Eliza and Freddy are working together. Henry isn't happy, and makes sure everyone knows it. One Day at a Time what they say about the young. Without the kids around, it feels like everything has changed, except for all the other things about Penelope's life that could change, too. a return to normal.  Penelope and Schneider's Friday night plans fall through, so they have a movie night instead.  Very sweet. Persuasion. The Pen in Their Hands. Five letters that were written, but were never sent, aboard H.M.S. Laconia. (And one that was.) Smooth Water. “If I wanted easy comfort, I should not have become a captain’s wife.” Wonderful Austen voice. A Step Not Taken.  What if that day at Lyme had gone just a little differently? Peter Wimsey The Duke's Parlormaid.  A story in correspondence, with detective interruptions.  Really captured the feel of the books and all the character voices. Poirot The Mice Will Play.  When Poirot returns unexpectedly from a case, he finds out something new about Miss Lemon. RED The One Bathtub.  “I did have dinner plans,” Han said, grudgingly, and so Victoria kicked the door in and graciously allowed Han to be the first into the bathroom. She understood the pain of missed reservations. Rivers of London Through All the Years, This Is My Home.  At night, when the rest of the staff and most, if not all, of the masters were asleep, Molly would wander the moonlit halls and remember what fresh air felt like on her skin. Of Molly, of Thomas, and of the years they've spent together - and of the Folly, strong and everlasting.  Lovely Molly perspective. Peelian Principles.  "You're very calm about this," Seawoll said on the fifth day.  Nightingale's perspective on Peter's time as a hostage, and REALLY AWESOME. UXB.  When one the deadliest weapons of the Blitz threatens London once again, Peter finds himself on the front line.  Wonderful casefic, just perfect. Saved! Conversation Starters. Cassandra and Roland have five important conversations. Sense and Sensibility Realization and Renewal.  As Marianne recovers, Elinor and Colonel Brandon find themselves drawn to one another. Sense8 Blue and Gold.  Wolfgang comes home with Kala and Rajan after Paris. Finding a place with them. Star Trek: Rihannsu Day Comes Up New.  "I have done something spectacularly stupid," Arrhae said.  This is a wonderful extension and meditation on what might happen past canon.  Ever since I first read The Romulan Way as a teen, I've wondered what happened to Arrhae in the end, and the subsequent books were great but didn't answer the ultimate question.  This doesn't either, but it suggests something further, which I appreciate. Terminator Movies A Fistful of Sarahs.  The sky cracks open, and Sarah watches herself tumble out of a rift in the space time continuum. She’s older than she is now, and she’s got a lot more scars, and she’s carrying the biggest and weirdest looking gun Sarah’s ever seen. with all the hope in my heart (and doubt in my mind). Sarah Connor has done this before. Dani has not. Post-Terminator: Dark Fate. Fate, the Future, and Other Sons of Bitches.  Sarah and Dani hit the road. Winnie the Pooh In Which Pooh Hunts for the Meaning of Christmas.  Pooh finds a mysterious envelope pinned to the door of his house. In Which Eeyore Loses His Tail Again, Or At Least Plans To.  It's a bright, sunny day, and Eeyore has a plan to make it tolerable. Now if only his friends will cooperate.

[just-a-spark]

The Before, and The After Part 10

Warnings: Language, Sexual Content (18+ to be safe) 

Series Masterlist

Summery: A wealthy classmate of Meg’s becomes close to the family, a little too close to the playboy grandson of Harlan Thrombey. The events leading up to, and following, Harlan Thrombey’s death.

Elizabeth didn’t tell Benoit Blanc everything in detail. That night was for her and her alone to relive. But the look on his face gave him a very dangerous idea.

“So you and Mr. Drysdale had... relations the night before your wedding? When was that again?” Blanc asked evenly.

Elizabeth nodded once, “I was married October 1 of this year.”

“And how far along are you?” Blanc asked, gesturing toward her stomach.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at him, pursing her lips while the wheels in her head turned.

“Was a baby part of your plan? For wealth? For power? Were you trying?” Blanc pressed and Elizabeth stammered a little in response.

“I mean, we weren’t planning-”

“If I were to interview your husband, would he tell me you had any unprotected sex?”

“No.” She said quickly, looking over her shoulder at the hallway, “Well, once... We weren’t trying. In fact, we were trying very hard not to have children yet. It wasn’t part of our five year plan.”

“So something was amiss? Did he tell you a condom broke?”

“No.” Elizabeth said quietly, looking down with a forlorn smile, “I missed my period three weeks after the wedding. A week later I still didn’t have it.” She looked back up at Blanc with the best poker face she could muster, but he’d already backed her into the corner, “So I took a pregnancy test in secret.”

Blanc waited impatiently for her to continue, staring at her with big eyes, “And?”

“And it was positive.” She replied with a sigh, “That same night we had unprotected sex, a week later I took another test and ‘wowee we’re having a babyyy’.” She sang sarcastically. “Why would he ever question it? Why would anyone question it?, He’s my husband.”

Blanc lifted his head, as if having his own ‘ah ha’ moment, “You knew you were pregnant with another man’s child, so you manipulated your husband into thinking he got you pregnant, when in reality, you know he is not the father. Without a shadow of a doubt?”

She narrowed her eyes at Blanc and grinned devilishly, “Without a doubt.”

“Mmhhmm. Well. This is an interesting turn of events.” Blanc answered, leaning both forearms on the chair.

Elizabeth noticed his sudden change of demeanor and began to panic, “Why is that?”

“Because if Ransom Drysdale knew he was getting cut from the will and he had a child on the way... well... as you can imagine, that gives him a motive. Desperate men will do anything for their children.”

Elizabeth shook her head, her mouth open in horror, “No! No, that isn’t possible-”

“If he is as terrible of a person as you have made him out to be, it seems quite possible to me.”

“He didn’t know-” She clenched her fist and twisted her mouth angrily, “I never told him. I tried... but I didn’t get the chance.”

“And why is that?” Blanc questioned, having the woman where he wanted her, “A happy accident might change dear Hugh’s mind about running away with you.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard, staring at the chess board and knowing she was about to lose the game, “I tried to tell him. I called him at least twenty times the week leading up to Harlan’s birthday.”

"Did he ever get back to you?” Blanc asked, the smallest smile creeping onto his face as she shook in her seat. “What did he say to you?”

She steeled her nerves, willing her pulse to slow as she looked Benoit Blanc dead in the eyes and told him, “Nothing. I never heard back from him.”

                                    November 8, Harlan’s 85th Birthday

“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you again. I know you clearly don’t want to talk to me, otherwise you would have called back, but I need to talk to you. Please call me back... or don’t, I guess. But tell Harlan happy birthday from me. I wish I could be there... Hope you’re doing well... well, goodbye.”

Ransom sat in his Beamer outside his home, dressed in an old white shirt and brown coat for his grandfather’s birthday party. He knew he should call her back. He’d missed eighteen of her calls. But they’d made a deal as he helped her back onto her horse that night: they’d leave the past behind them. She wouldn’t contact him again.

She’d been married just over a month, she couldn’t be that bored already, but then again, Phil was just... nice. Ransom tossed his phone into the passenger seat of his car and threw the gear shift into drive, speeding down the dirt road to his grandfather’s house.

As he drove, Ransom imagined Eliza. He imagined her face when she’d catch his eye across the room, and smile softly even though she’d openly tell people he was the devil. He could practically hear her laugh when they’d lay awake for hours after sex talking about nothing, holding hands and cuddling until one of them fell asleep or they’d go for another round. Ransom missed her, and he saved every hopeful message she left him, just so he could replay them when he slept alone, missing her warmth curled up next to him.

As the sun began to set over the back of the Thrombey home, Ransom swore he’d call her back after the party. He didn’t know how long it would take, and he was already late enough.

“I’m going to stop this Harlan- I’m warning you!” Ransom’s anger built up and he exploded out the door of the study and out the front door, storming past his Greantnana without a word. He slammed the door to his car shut and sped off into the night, angry and devastated.

Cut off.

He was getting cut off. They were all getting cut off. What the hell was he supposed to do now? His friends, oh God, the circles he ran in, what would they do if he didn’t have the funds to join them? He’d be an outcast. And his family? There’d be no living with them when they found out. He was out of options...

Ransom struggled to pull his phone out of his pants pocket as an idea struck him. He quickly dialed Eliza and put her on speaker, unaware of the late hour he was calling her.

“Hello?” She whispered, her voice heavy with sleep.

“Eliza.” Ransom gasped, feeling lighter after hearing her voice, “Eliza, I’m coming for you.”

“You’re...what?” She yawned, not quite surprised enough for what he said. There was a beat of silence and she repeated, more alert this time, “You’re what?”

“Harlan is cutting us off. All of us. He’s cutting me and my family out of the will and he’s leaving everything to Marta.” Ransom rambled on and when Eliza didn’t respond he added, “We should have ran before you got married, I know that, but the money I have is still mine. It’s just like you said, I can take care of us for a while, we’ll go somewhere new and start over. Hell, maybe Harlan will take pity on me if he finds out I’ve run off with you...”

“Ransom.” Eliza’s voice croaked on the other end and he looked down at the phone on his lap. She should have called him Hugh. “What we had... it was really special. I wanted to be with you, more than anything, but you didn’t want me. I’ve moved on. I’m married- and I’m happy. I’ve been trying to call you to tell you-” She cut off, and Ransom felt his heart sink at her sad words.

“What? What have you been trying to tell me?” Ransom snapped desperately, wondering what could be so important she needed to call him time and time again.

She sighed, “Phillip and I are pregnant, Ransom. I can’t run away with you. I can’t run away with no money to my name and a baby to care for. That’s not fair, to anybody. I have to stay with Phillip so he can take care of us.”

Ransom’s breath was shaky as he stared ahead, nearing the edge of the property. “I hope you’re happy then.” He ended the call and threw the phone onto the floor, seething through every pore.

“Fuck!” He cried out as he drove, passing the last security camera.

I can’t get cut off. I can’t let Marta get the inheritance. I have to win her back.

Ransom slammed on the breaks, his Beamer skidding to a stop.

I can’t let this happen... I can’t let Marta get that money.

After spending a summer as Harlan’s research assistant, Ransom was well versed in the world of murder and mystery. As he pulled his car off the road past the carved elephant and parked, turning the key in the ignition.

If Marta killed Harlan, she wouldn’t get a dime... If Marta accidentally killed Harlan, the previous will has me in it.

Ransom trudged away from his car toward the house, forming a plan in his mind. The slayer rule would ensure he’d keep his inheritance. Marta gave Harlan his medications every night. If she were to give him the wrong dose... an inadvertent overdose...

As the house came into view over the gate, Ransom stopped and smiled to himself.

Sorry Harlan.

[tonystarktogo]

1- About Tony being the Villians' Favorite: CW happened and they get access to footage of the Siberia fight and they realize that cap could have killed Tony and they're like "how dare you???? Who do you think you are???" and at this point it's not even about who is going to kill Iron Man anymore, it's because Tony is the only one able the keep up with them, he gives them a good challenge, he has the best sarcastic answers for all the villian monologue, they don't even want to harm people anymore

2- they want to fight Tony to see who has the best weapons, who is smarter (it’s always Tony) so the rogues come back and they realize something: the bad guys barely attack Tony, they go out of their way to avoid attacking Tony and antagonize team cap and when confronted with this they say “well someone has to defend Mr Stark since all his supposed friends wouldn’t hesitate on turning their backs on him for some spoiled hydra agent who doesn’t know how to control their anger but sure knows how

3- how to control their anger but sure knows how to fuck up people’s mind” (and they keep getting her name wrong, they call her wilma, wendy, marta omg i love this headcanon where no one gets her name right)

Why thank you for this brilliant headcanon, darling! (I love that mixing up Wanda’s name post too, wasn’t there one where Thor always got it wrong and played stupid? It’s brilliant)

I just really like that the villains enjoy fighting Iron Man because he’s as much of a drama queen as they are–he knows how to put on, and more importantly how to appreciate, a good show, you know? Fighting Iron Man is like playing a really challenging game of chess, where they take each other’s weapons and minions out without hesitation, but even when the king loses, he’s never actually taken off the board (yup that metaphor sucks, I apologise to every chess player out there). 

And well, of course it’s also about pride. Everything is about pride. The villains who most frequently engage with Iron Man in combat obviously keep a score. They keep an eye on who gets the most hits in, who deals the most damage, who does a strategical retreat and so on. They also keep track on which Avenger is the most likely to interrupt their fun, so they know whom to take out in the beginning of a fight.

Only then one of them gets their hands on footage of a certain Siberian bunker and this shit suddenly gets serious. Iron Man could’ve been taken out (worth 150 points) by someone who isn’t even recognises as an official player and THAT CAN NOT STAND. 

(It’s got nothing to do with the fact that maybe Tony Stark isn’t all that bad, you know, for a superhero. Nope. It’s all about the game and wanting those 150 points to themselves. Their professional pride is on the line here, okay. It’s not because of feelings. Feelings aren’t a part of the villain manual.)

So, they adapt. They’re villains, they’re used to it. Admittedly usually because the hero pulls some impossible stunt at the last second because they stubbornly refuse to die, but that’s neither here nor there.

First, they assign someone to keep track on Stark. It’s not a protective duty. It’s just…an insurance. To make sure no outside influence becomes a serious threat to their fun. Besides after all this time they’ve invested into fighting Iron Man, should he ever actually lose, they all agree they have earned this honour. Not some lucky upstart or fucking turncoat.

Second, certain forces need to be taken out. Officially it’s destroying the competition–a perfectly acceptable, villainous goal–, unofficially some people take their hatred for Iron Man a little too far. And when you already have to watch out for the supposed heroes, you can’t afford some crazy nutcase to pop up every time you turn your back on Stark.

Then the Rogue Avengers come back. The villains have dragged it out for as long as possible, an obscene amount of bribes have gone into ensuring the Congress isn’t too forgiving too quickly, but Stark is determined to get the Rogues pardoned for whatever reason, and that’s not a battle they can win in the long run.

And that’s a problem. The Rogues have access to Stark in ways they have not. Thankfully at least Stark doesn’t stay at the Avengers’ compound anymore. That gives them a small reprieve.

(They don’t worry. Villains do not worry. It’s not in their genetic code, nor their moral codex for that matter.)

There’s a very serious discussion about grazing the stupid compound into the ground, but in the end they decide not to do it. For one, the risk of the Rogues being granted access to the Stark Tower is just too great. For another, it’s convenient to have a return address they could graze into the ground, should the Rogues ever cross a certain line.

Next, the villains create a time table. Whereas the media used to joke about the ‘weekly villain attacks’ back in the day, there are now carefully scheduled weekly attacks for real. It helps them to vent some of their frustration, at the right target no less. It also has the added benefit of keeping the Rogues busy.

Of course Iron Man joins in on the fun more often than not, but he isn’t the main target like he used to be, isn’t singled out. If anything it’s the Rogues that are being singled out, and they always bear the brunt of the fight.

(They do not go easy on Iron Man. They do not. They have simply shifted the focus of their game. Damage dealt to the Rogues is now worth way more points than before, and since every villain wants to take the lead, it’s only rational they concentrate on the most worth-while targets. That’s all there is to it.)

The first time one of them makes Wanda Maximoff scream in rage is an accident. To their great shame it’s not even a real villain who accomplishes it, it’s a fairly new minion who interrupts the shouting match between his boss and the witch with an annoyed, “Oh, shut up, Wen–Vick–Wally, whoever the fuck you are, I’m trying to concentrate here!”

It becomes a running gag then, to never call the witch by her name, and the longer they keep the joke alive, the more frustrated the witch becomes.

(The minion gets a well-earned raise.)

Eventually the Rogues catch on. Eventually they begin to ask questions. Giving them more ridiculous answers every time becomes another running gag. Inevitably though Rogers eventually runs into Cross Bones who has a tendency of taking his fights with Captain America too personal.

“Well someone has to defend Mr Stark since all his supposed friends wouldn’t hesitate on turning their backs on him for some spoiled hydra agent who doesn’t know how to control their anger but sure knows how to fuck up people’s mind!�� he snaps. Then uses the frozen state of the stunned Captain to his advantage to break the man’s nose with a very satisfying crack. Because, hello, villain.

(He then promptly dives to the side to push a crying kid out of the way a crumbling building. Not because he cares about who gets hurt of course. Villains don’t care about this stuff. But everyone knows Tony Stark cares about it.)

He gets twenty-five points for breaking Roger’s nose. He also gets a “I don’t know why, but if a guy like Cross Bones decides to save a kids’ life I’m not gonna sit around complaining about it.” and a thumbs up from Tony Stark in that night’s talk show. 

(He does not care more about the thumbs up than about the points. His fellow villains are not jealous.)

There are a lot of villains-saving-civilians-and-innocent-bystanders incidents after that.

(Not that anyone cares what Tony Stark thinks. The saving people thing simply earns them bonus points. Bonus points are important.)

[jamesniall]

Answer them all haha

do you have a favourite sweater? idk i think it’s more a hoodie than a sweater lmao but yes it’s a disney one, with mickey’s ears and it’s kind of lilac and it’s soft and warm and i love it

what’s your middle name? paola :/ 

do you still talk to the first person you kissed? if u mean like, a kiss on the lips...i have never done that and i never ever will

do you get on with your grandpa`? i did :( my mom’s father was the best person i’ve ever ever ever met and i miss him so much everyday

what was your favourite cartoon as a kid? rugrats omfkg

what’s your favourite cartoon now? i dont watch them anymore tbh i dont watch tv anymore

do you read the news paper? sometimes, when things happen but it’s not a thing i dutifully do everyday nope

who was the last text you sent to ? my sister

what does the last text you sent say? ‘thanks u asshole’ lmao

if you could have any hair colour what would it be? i dont think i’d ever change my hair color tbh i dont think i’d look good in anything other than black

do you like nature documentaries? yeeeeess

what is your aesthetic? i....dont think i have one tbh....this is a very especific thing but i like concert pics where the artist looks tiny and u can see the crowd and the lights and the stage and it’s in HQ and i can set it up as a wallpaper lmao

when did you last pet a dog? like 2 minutes ago :’)

whose friend’s parents do you like the most? i dont have any friends in real life so i dont know anyone’s parents

have you ever been on a road trip? eehhhh yeah kind of? we used to go to a lil town called ‘anapoima’ and it was a 2 hour trip.....that’s it

tell me about someone you know called emma in real life? u dont find emmas in colombia so idk

are you reading a book in english class, what is it? im not taking an english class like the one you’re probably talking about but i am reading a book, well, re reading tbh, the all for the game series by nora sakavic 10000/10 would recommend

do you have a favourite aunt? yes, sorta, my aunt marta, she used to be my fave and #funfact she was the only one who could get me to sleep when i was a baby but she has her own kids now and we see each other like once a year so yeah idk

baths or showers? i have never in my life taken a bath so i’ll have to go with showers.....also i kind of dont understand how baths work??? do u just....sit there with soapy water??? how do u get the soapy water off??? with a shower??? i dont see the point of baths i have actually never seen a bathtub in my life

skiing or sun bathing? i’ve never done either of those so idk....also i hate the sun bc i get sunburnt in 2 minutes and skiing it’s basically impossible in a city where snow it’s...not a thing....so yeah

do you kill spiders? I WISH I COULD, that sounds mean but i hate spiders i know they are harmless and most of the time they are more scared than i am but i just cant physically get close to a spider, they scare me so fucking much i cant ever kill them so they always run away and i live with the endless anxiety of ‘where are they now? do i have lil baby spiders living with me now?’

have you ever made an ice pop? im not quite sure what an ice pop is so im gonna pretend it’s like...making a paleta so yeah i have

are you wearing shoes right now? nope, just fluffy socks

tell me about you favourite primary school/elementary school teacher i didnt have one

who was the last person you hugged? i havent hugged anyone in literal months so i dont remember

do you wear glasses? nope

do you have a cat? nope

do you have a favourite pair of underwear? yep

what was your last tweet? a response to niall’s knee tweet: lmaaaao this is the most me thing ever. did 20 minutes of cardio last tuesday and my knee's achey and swollen. also my hip hurts.

do you still use facebook? ehhh....kind of. to see what my high school ppl are up to i guess

do you like birds? yeah they’re cute

who was the last person you called cute? ......the birds of the question before this one? does that count? if not, probably my dog.

who was the last person that called you cute? idk it was probably years ago 

how did you meet your best friend? i dont have a best friend

escalators or elevators? it depends, there are days when elevators give me anxiety so i’d go with stairs then, but there are days my knees hurt a lot so i’d go with elevators then

are you named after anyone, who? nope

what was your first url? horan-nialler lmao

autumn or winter? idk i have never been through those

do you win at scrabble? ....i have never played scrabble

put your ipod on shuffle , who is the first song that comes up by? slow hands by niall horan lmao go listen to it on spotify and buy it on itunes

have you ever drunk from a mason jar? what is a jason bar?

can you draw? i can try

what was your first profile picture?i dont remember lmao

favourite tshirt? dont have one

best tumblr friend? i probably dont have one tbh

when did you last run? in my cardio class last tuesday

do you like to paint your nails? not really

did you ever do something as a kid that got you into loads of trouble? not smth super big that i remember

who is your favourite dog that isn’t yours? i only know by lil baby dog

have you ever been drunk? nope

have you ever done something you regret while drunk? go back to question 50

do you want to kiss anyone right now? nope. never. digusting.

do/did you like you math teacher? nope

do you often ride the bus? e v e r y d a y

do you have a fireplace in your house? nope and if i did i’d move out 

are you violent when you’re angry? nope

do you cry when you’re angry? ehhh...nope, i’d have to be way too angry and even then im just quiet

favourite Harry potter book? i havent read the books, just the movies

can you remember your last dream? yep, it was more of a nightmare tbh

do you go to bed early or late? depends if u consider 3-4am late or early

do you speak a second language? yes

who was your first ever best friend? i have never had a best friend

have you ever had an operation? yep, a tooth 

tell me about your favourite cousin i dont have one

do you have a piece of clothing that doesn’t even fit you anymore but you can’t bare to throw away? nope

have you ever been in a musical? nope

do you have a porch? nope

how many times have you watched your favourite movie?like 1 million probably

what do you order at mcdonalds? idk how to say this in english so: un combo de cuarto de libra con coca cola sin hielo y papas agrandadas

do you get on with old people? yeah i’d like to think so

science fiction or romance? a romance in a sci fi universe

do you take naps? nope but i wish i could

how many classes do you/did you take in high-school? like 20

when did it last snow where you live? it has never snowed but with the weather as it is i wouldnt be surprised if it started snowing one day bc climate change it’s a real and scary thing

does it ever snow where you live? see question before this one

how many months until your birthday? 2 i think

how much charge does your computer have right now? 100%

what is your favourite disney channel movie? hsm

the city or the sea side? sea side even tho i’ve only seen the sea once in my life

what is your least favourite colour? yellow

do you have homework to do? yes my thesis lmao

are you still friends with your first best friend?

do you have/are you the gay cousin? i am the gay cousin

do you own dungarees? nope, but i did when i was like 10

do you like to play sport? nO

what was your favourite ever christmas present? a polaroid camera

how old are you? 21

what is your mum’s name? angela but in spanish so anhela lmao

do you ever use internet explorer? nope

have you ever had blonde hair? NO

is their a play park near your house? yes but it’s a scary place, u go there, u get mugged

when did you last see the person you have a crush on? i saw niall horan on the 25 of april 2014 (im kidding i dont even have a crush on niall idk what a crush is tbh)

who did you last talk to on the phone? my uncle maybe

pants or dresses? pants

do you read fan fiction? it’s all i do

what is you’re favourite blog? @dailyniall

do you write poetry? nope

drama or comedy? drama, i love angst

have you ever had a hickey? no ew

Your own question that you want me to answer is niall horan coming to colombia on 2018? he fucking better

woooooooooow that was a ride odngkjdfg lmao THANK U that was fun!